


Esto Perpetua

by The_Kapok_Kid



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Brotherhood, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Minor Violence, Multiple Story Arcs, Not romance-centric, Regulus is awesome, War, Wizarding Politics, long fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-09
Updated: 2017-12-01
Packaged: 2018-02-03 06:29:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 78,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1734512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Kapok_Kid/pseuds/The_Kapok_Kid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>Esto perpetua, sine timore tuam viam iturus es - Be thou forever, tread thy path without fear.</em><br/>It is the year 1976, and the wizarding world is poised on the brink of war. The Marauders and Regulus stand on the threshold of adulthood. There are choices to make, paths to traverse, and magic deeper than any they have ever encountered before.<br/><em>This is the story of five boys whom the war made men.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Last Vestiges Of Peace

**Author's Note:**

> Esto Perpetua is loosely translated as “Be the constant” or “Be thou forever”.  
> Long, rambly fic with multiple story arcs. Feedback is always appreciated. Hope you enjoy the story!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He sighed blissfully, soaking in the feeling of freedom and exhilaration that the end of exams usually heralded.

_Explain using examples, the difference in intent and incantation between the Animagus transformation and Trans-species switching spells._ Sirius Black grinned down at this final question of the Transfiguration O.W.L paper, and proceeded to answer it in his customary elegant hand. Minutes ticked by as he finished, checked his paragraphs, and turned the paper over to read through the rest of the answers already completed. Satisfied, he scribbled his name and index number on the cover-slip and shook out his quill, spattering minute drops of dark blue ink over the desk as he did so.

Finally setting his exam paper face down on the desk, massaging cramped fingers, he glanced around the hall at his friends. James appeared to have finished too, he was absent-mindedly scribbling something on an extra sheet of paper – Sirius smiled inwardly, he could make a good guess as to what it was – and grinning at Lily Evans, who was seated two rows in front of him. She seemed to feel his gaze on her back; she tensed her shoulders and scowled, keeping her eyes determinedly on the parchment in front of her. Remus was arranging his ink and quills on the desk, in ascending order of length and colour, Sirius noted amusedly. Peter was chewing his nails, forehead beaded with sweat, and scribbling feverishly on his own parchment, pausing now and then to glance desperately at Ravindra Patil’s paper.

Sirius yawned and made a face at the giant grandfather clock that stood on the platform in front of the hall. It said that there were still seven minutes before the papers would be collected. He glanced stealthily at McGonagall, who was the supervisor that day – but thankfully she was busy conjuring tissues for Sarah Fawcett who was having a sneezing fit – and hissed, hard, at Marlene McKinnon, who was seated diagonally from him, hoping she would hear him and turn around.

No such luck.

She kept her head down, and stared demurely at the desk. Sirius groaned and slumped in defeat. He caught McGonagall looking at him; lips pursed in disapproval, and hastily arranged his face into what he hoped was a neutral expression. He didn’t think she’d be fooled, though.

There wasn’t anything else he could do to attract McKinnon’s attention, so he fidgeted in his seat, marking time with his foot, and focused his attention on her long, dark brown French braid.

 _Ding…dong…ding…dong…_ at last the clock sounded the end of the hour.

 “The examination is now over. Quills down, please, and remain seated until I collect all your papers.” Professor McGonagall’s stern tones had never been more welcome. Sirius leapt out of his seat as soon as she had collected all their rolls of parchment, heaved his bag over his shoulder and ran down the aisle to greet James and Remus.

“Thank Merlin that’s an end to the damned O.W.Ls,” he breathed, slapping James across the back, and taking in the gigantic grin and tousled hair of his best friend. James had always had an infectious smile, and Sirius felt his own lips splitting into an answering grin.

“What do you think, Prongs? Transfiguration’s your subject, after all.”

 “Easy as they come, mate. Had to finish off with an Animagus question too, didn’t they? And it’s just as much your subject as it is mine, Padfoot. You were the first to master the transformation, you know.” James lowered his voice at the last bit, and cocked his head to look around: Evans was leaving the Hall, accompanied by McKinnon and two other girls.

James eyed Evans’ retreating back thoughtfully, and then grinned. “Do you think she’d give me a cuddle if I turned into Prongs? Girls love animals, and I’m irresistible after all.” He straightened up, almost unconsciously, and both Sirius and Remus chuckled.

“I wouldn’t bet on it,” Remus told him with a snort. “The antlers are likely to put her off. Padfoot might have a chance, though. I know that Lily likes dogs.”

“That’s true Prongs. Your antlered visage can’t hold a candle to my liquid puppy-eyes!” He then proceeded to demonstrate the same, eliciting coos and murmurs from a few people who had caught sight of the expression in passing.

The three of them laughed, and James tossed Sirius a two-fingered salute. Sirius snickered good-naturedly and slung an arm around James, leading them to their usual spot by the lake.

Peter caught up to them at last, panting and still tucking the last of his stationery into his bag. He slung himself down next to James, sitting just a tad closer than was strictly necessary – something that made Sirius raise an eyebrow, and upon looking at Remus, saw that it hadn’t escaped his notice either – still looking anxious, though the sheen of perspiration on his forehead had lessened somewhat.

“Did you do the seventh question?” Peter asked; he always wanted to discuss the paper afterwards, something that annoyed Sirius greatly. He preferred to forget about it entirely until the owl arrived, bearing his results. He sighed in annoyance, but luckily, Remus, kind as always, pulled out his question paper and turned to Peter.

Sirius lay flat on his back and put his arms behind his head, thankful for the cool breeze summer that swept around them, caressing the heated skin of his forehead and brow, soothing the dull ache that had started behind his temples, as though it was the tender and caring hand of a beloved mother. It gently rustled the branches of the willow – not the Whomping Willow, but a normal muggle one – under which they sat, and stirred the leaves of the vines that patulated over the roof of the greenhouses in the distance.

He sighed blissfully, soaking in the feeling of freedom and exhilaration that the end of exams usually heralded, and closed his eyes against the warm June sunshine.

Evans and her friends were feeding the Giant Squid again; Sirius could tell by the muffled grunts of pleasure the Squid was emitting as he swallowed the morsels of toast they were giving him, and also by James’ stertorous breathing – something he always did when Evans was nearby. He grinned lazily, and nudged James with his foot. James’ breathing intensified.

His thoughts turned to the incident that had happened the previous day after their Defence paper. Remus, ever talented with healing spells, had managed to mend the fairly deep gash Snape had left on James’ face, but a small scar was still visible on his cheek. He hadn’t been too enthusiastic about the prognosis, telling them that the remnants of dark magic transferred to James’ cheek by the curse couldn’t be removed by force. It would take its own sweet time to degenerate and fade out entirely – a sort of half-life, Sirius thought, like he’d read in those muggle science books – and the scarring was a direct effect of that.

 Sirius was shaken, but not shocked. They all knew that Snape wouldn’t hesitate to use dark magic if the fancy struck him.

Evans remained as blissfully – or wilfully – ignorant of that fact as ever, and had yet to acknowledge any of the Marauders after her tirade aimed at James.

“Do you think she’ll ever speak to me again?” James’ voice trembled slightly and he sounded uncharacteristically forlorn; Sirius knew they were thinking of the same thing.

“She’ll come around eventually, Prongs. She’ll speak to you before the term ends. There are just three days left, and I doubt she will want to part ways on bad terms with anyone.” Remus’ tones were soothing, and they all knew that what he said was true. Evans was fiery and spirited, but she wasn’t unkind, and didn’t hold grudges overlong.

James nodded quietly, then, forcing himself to cheer up, said, “Hey, that’s right! Three more days left! Can’t wait to go home! Dad said he’d refurbish the Quidditch pitch and get us a new set of balls – should be spiffing, eh, Padfoot?”

Sirius forced a nod and a smile, but swallowed thickly at the reminder that there was so little time left before the school year ended. He would soon be on the train back to London, to his Pureblood-supremacist parents, repulsive tattletale house elf and the vast, gloomy shell of a house which disseminated dark magic and evil from its very pores. The thought alone was enough to make him feel nauseous.

And of course, Father would be just waiting to pounce on him and his little brother Regulus and stuff them full of more pureblood nonsense and talk about ‘such great opportunities’ that the Wizengamot and the Department of Magical Law Enforcement had to offer. Sirius didn’t want to join the Wizengamot, but he did want to join the DMLE – as an Auror. He grinned at the thought of his parents’ horror when he chose to share that information with them.

But little Reggie, on the other hand – not so little now that Sirius thought about it, he’d turned fifteen in April – might agree to apprentice to whatever puffed-up lord or lady Father would find. And no doubt Mother-

The rustling of wings and a soft _“oh”_ from Remus interrupted his morbid musings, and Sirius looked up to find Remus holding out a cheerful looking owl to him.

“Letter for you, Pads?”

“Plunkett,” Sirius said, taking the owl. “Andromeda’s fellow. Oh good,” he added, slitting open the envelope and shaking out two pieces of thick parchment.

“Any reply?” he asked Plunkett, who hooted negatively, then thrust forward for a brief caress and nipped Sirius affectionately on the nose before taking off into the afternoon sky.

Sirius opened the first parchment.

 _Dear Sirius,_ [It read]

_I think your O.W.Ls would have just finished, and I trust you did well._

_I know I promised to write to you earlier, but we’ve just recovered from a nasty spot of bother at the Ministry. Ted recently got a promotion to Assistant Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation. However, it appears that Judas Selwyn, acting Head of the Office of Law – Policies Department, wasn’t happy about being passed over for the job. He lodged a complaint with the Department Head, saying that Ted shouldn’t be considered for the position, because as a Muggleborn, he has no thorough understanding of the Wizarding laws and traditions that govern acceptance and exchange between international magical communities._

_Can you believe his nerve? We did not think the Department Head took it too seriously, but all complaints are automatically forwarded to the DMLE for examination. Ted had to face an inquiry about his qualifications – of course, since Ted passed the Magical Bar exam with flying colours – never tell me Hufflepuffs are not clever! – All that claptrap about “not understanding laws” went out of the window. He was reinstated following the inquiry, but plenty of people have made it clear that they think he cannot handle the job._

_I’ve been rushed off my feet as a result of this entire hullabaloo, and came down with the ’flu soon after. I’m recovering now, though still quite tired._

_In other news, Dora’s really blossoming into her metamorphmagus abilities – she turned her hair into all the shades of blue in the ocean when we took her to the seaside yesterday. Her favourite colour still remains pink, though._

_Sirius, I know you probably won’t have a very good holiday at Grimmauld Place, but I hope you leave soon and stay with the Potters like you did last summer. If you do, give Dorea my love. Ted, Dora and I send out regards to your friends, and to Regulus, too._

_Your loving cousin,_

_Andromeda._

_Ps: Dora seems quite taken with your friend Remus ever since you lot came to babysit her last summer. She’s drawn a picture for him, which I’ve enclosed here. She says it’s Plunkett, but I’m not quite sure._

Sirius’ brow had become increasingly furrowed as he read the letter, but the postscript elicited a chuckle. He handed over the second parchment to Remus with a smirk.

“Dora’s taken a liking to you, apparently, Moony. She’s drawn Plunkett for you!”

Remus blushed slightly and took the drawing, swatting playfully in James direction when he laughed. It didn’t look much like an owl; it was a hodgepodge of brown and yellow crayon, with one or two owl feathers glued on – provided by an obliging Plunkett, Sirius was sure – and ‘P-l-o-n-k-i-t’ written in a baby hand underneath.

Remus chuckled along with his friends, and stored the drawing in his textbook, just as Sirius folded up the letter from his favourite cousin, and put it away carefully in the deepest recesses of his schoolbag.

 

*******

****

Remus was just tucking little Nymphadora’s drawing into his Transfiguration textbook when a crumpled piece of parchment fell out. He picked it up and smoothed it out.

“What’s that you’ve got there, Moony?” Sirius asked inquisitively, eyeing the neat handwriting.

“Just some career prospects McGonagall said to look at,” he answered, setting the paper in Sirius’ outstretched hand. James, who’d been watching Lily petting the giant squid all this while, turned, and peered interestedly over Sirius’ shoulder.

“Curse-breaking?” James asked, surprised. “I thought you were interested in Healing or in – in veti – vertinorary – whatsit animal healing that muggles call it!”

“Veterinary healing,” Remus corrected automatically.

He hesitated, wondering how to tell his friends that yet again, his hopes had been crushed to nothing. He had been to see Professor McGonagall, his Head of House, for a follow-up appointment regarding his Careers Advice when he’d expressed interest in Healing of any sort. Her tone had been gentle, but that did nothing to alleviate the sting of her words.

“I spoke to an advisor in the administrative department at St.Mungo’s, Remus,” she said, kindly – at the sound of his first name, Remus knew it was bad news, for only when it was so did Professor McGonagall use the given names of her students – “they are prohibited by policy to allow entrance to any applicant with Lycanthropy, or any other long-term or incurable infectious disease.”

She must have seen his face fall, because she laid a hand on his shoulder.

“What about veterinary healing?” he asked.

“I’m sorry, not that either.” It was a not a shock, but it was disappointing all the same, for hope is an accursed bloom that insists on growing even reason demands otherwise.

They had gone on to discuss other options, and Professor McGonagall had been encouraging when he stated Curse-breaking as one of his choices.

“That’s a good possibility,” she confirmed. “Your marks in Defence, Runes and Arithmancy are excellent, and your Transfiguration and Charms results are almost as good.”

She peered at him over the tops of her spectacles, and a rare smile graced the corners of her mouth. “They do not discriminate on grounds of disease– as long as applicants have the necessary academic qualifications – after all, Curse-breaking itself is a dangerous endeavour, and an extra curse or two makes no difference.”

James beamed as Remus recounted this conversation, hazel eyes crinkling behind the thick lenses. “That’s brilliant, Moony!” he exclaimed happily, then continued more quietly, “we know how – how disappointing it is when you can’t…can’t get your – dream, I s’pose” – Remus saw his eyes flick surreptitiously to Lily – but “Curse-breaking is also pretty good, isn’t it?”

Peter piped up with his congratulations, as did Sirius, though a faint shadow lingered behind his eyes.

“Never mind me, lads, what about you?” Remus enquired. He’d submit an application to train under a practising Curse-breaker during the holidays as soon as he could, but although he now knew they considered werewolves, he was not certain that they would follow through – there was a possibility that such leniency was only theoretical, and that actually hiring werewolves was a different matter in practise.

“Yeah, Prongs, how’s the Auror business going?” Peter asked.

“Well enough,” James grinned. “They do ask for top-level N.E.W.Ts in five subjects, so I guess Pads and I will have to really pull our socks up…not that we aren’t doing well already,” he added casually.

“My parents don’t like it.” Sirius said abruptly. There was a frown between his eyebrows, but Remus was surprised by the sheer bite in his voice.

“Father wants me to train for the Department of Law, and Mother – well, Mother won’t care what I do, as long as it’s something _honourable_ and _worthy_ and _exalts the Noble Black name._ My preferences don’t come into account at all.”

“You – you aren’t going to listen to them, are you?”

“No, Pete,” Sirius replied. His frown deepened. “The Department of Law’s filled with narrow-minded baboons anyway.” He crushed Andromeda’s envelope in his fist. “No, I’m going to join the DMLE all right.”

“I can see about applications for both of us, mate,” James offered. “Dad’s got a friend who’s head of the Special Task Force, and I bet he’d give us a few pointers if we ask.”

“That’d be good. Doubt I’ll be getting any help from my parents anymore.”

“So, what are the subjects you’re doing?” Peter asked eagerly.

“Well, the usual – Defence, Transfig, Charms, Potions, and – and one more,” James counted off. “And whatever else I feel like – would Ancient Runes be helpful, do you think?”

“Possibly,” Sirius allowed. “Useful to translate – you know – nefarious dark wizard activities and all that.” He waved a hand airily and grinned as he spoke, but Remus smiled to himself, realising that Sirius was probably very hazy about what ‘nefarious dark wizard activities’ involving Runes actually were.

“Anyway,” Sirius continued, “I just can’t wait to drop Divination!”

“But you always say it’s a free Outstanding on your mark sheet, Padfoot,” Remus said mildly.

“That’s so,” Sirius agreed, “but it’s about as useful as a stuffed house elf with a sock in its mouth. Now that O.W.Ls are over, we can move on to the _real_ things!”

Peter, who had been listening avidly all the while, looked crestfallen at Sirius’ pronouncement. Divination was one of his better subjects – Remus, who had no luck with his _Inner Eye_ , and had dropped Divination after the second day in Third year, was quite impressed with the short boy’s talent and always made sure to encourage him to explore it – but it was clear that Peter didn’t want to continue with it if none of his friends were there with him.

Remus laid a hand on Peter’s arm. “You shouldn’t quit, just because none of us will be there with you. You’ll make new friends for that class, you know. Professor Imago will be disappointed too, if you stop – you’re one of his best students, after all. Just give it a few days, and all the others will be flocking to ask for your help with homework.”

Peter didn’t look as sure as Remus sounded, but he gave his friend a tremulous smile anyway, and said, “Yeah, all right,” bravely.

“What about you, Moons?” James asked, twisting his head slightly to watch the Giant Squid curl his tentacles around the last bit of bread Lily was holding out to him. “Bet you’re relieved to drop Potions at long last, eh?”

They all laughed, for Remus’ notorious ability to botch even the simplest practical potion was a standing joke among them, though he was quite proficient at the theoretical aspects.

“Yes, I am,” Remus agreed peaceably. He pumped his fist in the air. “No more melting cauldrons! No more disembowelled toads – or slimy frog spawn, or – or speckled shrivelfig juice that gets in my eyes – or-”

“Getting knocked down by Slughorn’s belly when he turns around in class,” Sirius broke in, and they all dissolved into hilarity again.

“That’s definitely an advantage,” Remus acquiesced, when they had all composed themselves once more. “And I think I’ll keep on with History” – he made a face; he liked the subject but Binns bored him to death – “and Arithmancy, as well, I expect.”

“Good choices all round,” Sirius declared briskly. “Should be a good year, our Sixth year. Here’s to interesting subjects, exciting adventures and fine company!”

James glanced stealthily towards the lake. “Wonder if she’s doing the same subjects as we are,” he said, _sotto voce_ , but Remus heard him and smiled.

 

*******

****

The four boys stayed out until dusk, chattering idly at first, then sinking into silence one by one, watching the last rays of gold and pink fade from the sky, and the sun, now a blazing ball of fire, dip ever lower until it disappeared over the edge of the lake and the mountains.

The Giant Squid had long since retired for the night, occasionally letting out a pleasurable burp as he sank below the surface of the water.

The girls – Evans and McKinnon among them – had gone in too. Sirius had tried to nonchalantly cop a feel as the latter’s figure went by him, and he had been rewarded for his pains with a stinging hex to the hand. He was quite startled for a moment, as McKinnon was usually a sweet-natured girl, and this demonstration of spiritedness was unexpected. It made his belly squirm slightly with a feeling he couldn’t quite identify. His faced must have expressed his surprise, because McKinnon’s placid mien was broken for a second with a wicked smirk, and the other boys laughed at his discomfort.

It was dinner time when the boys rose to go inside, but were distracted by a scuffle in a clump of bushes near the doorway. Voices floated down to them, but the words were too indistinct for Sirius to make sense of them.

Remus though, appeared to have no problem understanding the words. His lycanthropy gave him excellent hearing – even better than the other Marauders, who also had good hearing  due to their Animagus abilities – and the tendons in his neck were taut, and his chocolate eyes wary. The sense of urgency emanating from him made Sirius alert, too, and he went for his wand, moving forward cautiously. Behind him, the others were also drawing their wands.

“Snape,” Remus hissed, from the corner of his mouth. “Also I think Mulciber and Avery – Rosier too. And a high voice I can’t place – probably a First year.”

Sirius heard James groan. They could all guess what this might be. They rounded a corner and went into the bushes. Snape, Avery, Mulciber and Rosier stood around three Hufflepuff First years, who looked terrified.

“Bullying First years again, are we, Snivellus?” James inquired coldly.

“None of your business, _Potter._ ”

“But it _is_ my business when you’re bullying students of the school,” Remus replied coolly.

“Who do you think you are, speaking to us like that? You, unlike us, are a Mudblood!”

“Yes,” came the calm riposte, “but I, unlike you, am also a Prefect.” Frost dripped off the end of each syllable, but fire flashed in Remus’ eyes. Sirius was both awed and a little frightened by the sheer power behind the calm demeanour. He knew Remus regretted not stepping in to stop the bullying yesterday, and he was more than determined to make up for it now.

“That’ll be twenty points each from Slytherin, for bullying and causing bodily harm,” Remus said, nodding at the closest First year, who was whimpering and clutching a bloody nose. “This will be reported to your Head of House.”

Rosier snarled in rage and lunged forward.

Sirius raised his wand and stepped up, a hex on the tip of his tongue, as did James and Remus, though Peter’s pavid nature kept him from following their lead.

Avery, who was either too cowardly, or had enough sense left in him not to tangle with the Marauders, grabbed Rosier by the neck of his robes and pulled him back before any spells could be cast by either party.

Remus opened his mouth again, but the Slytherins beat a hasty retreat before he could say anything more, casting looks of pure loathing at the Gryffindors as they went.

Sirius sighed and squatted down in front of Bloody-Nose.

“Hey,” he said gently, “mind me taking a look at your nose?”

The little boy removed his hand, and Sirius prodded the sides of the nose gently with his fingers. “It isn’t broken, luckily, just a tad bloodied.” He siphoned the worst of it away with his wand. “You should show that to Madam Pomfrey in any case.”

“Oy Moony,” he called to Remus, “This one needs the hospital wing. Will you take him?”

Remus, who had finished tending to the others, came over and peered at the wound too. “Come along then,” he said gently. “What’s your name?”

“Aleksandar Romanoff,” was the soft reply.

“Well then, Aleksandar, let’s go see the nurse, shall we?” Remus took the little boy’s hand and led him away, the other two Hufflepuffs following in their wake.

The others turned to go inside, too, but a slip of pale parchment on the ground caught Sirius’ eye. “Hullo,” he said, stooping to pick it up, “look at this – must have fallen out of Rosier’s pocket.” He glanced down at what was a flyer of some sort.

 _Join The Knights of Walpurgis – Junior Branch,_ [it said]

_If you are a young witch or wizard aged 16 or under, with an interest in exploring the finer aspects of Spell-making, Potion-making, Runology or Duelling, consider joining The Knights of Walpurgis – Junior Branch._

_We are an organisation dedicated to studying the advanced mechanics and subtleties of Magic, and upholding and practising the traditions and customs of Wizarding society._

_If interested, submit your application to:_

_Evan Rosier_

_Cecilia Yaxley_

_Smugnacious Travers_

“What on earth?” Sirius finished reading and glanced at James, who appeared to be as baffled as he was.

“Ah never mind, then,” Sirius shrugged, and pocketed the flyer. “Must be some nutty Slytherin secret society or other – they’d probably hold meeting in the dead of night and refuse to admit anyone unless they do the secret handshake and produce a pound of flesh from a Hufflepuff First year. Anyway, come along, Pete. Dinner awaits!”

Save


	2. Homeward Bound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There had been no sign of his own parents, not even a letter to inquire after his recovery.

Dinner was a merry meal. Sirius tucked into his broccoli and roast potatoes with abandon, hungry after a day of exams and worrying. Opposite him, James and Remus bantered between mouthfuls of stew.

“Come on, Moony. Gobstones - just this once!”

“No, Prongs! I have my book to finish.”

“You always say that,” James groused. He shook a finger in Remus’ face and stared sternly over the frames of his spectacles, channelling the spirit of McGonagall. “You’re doing it on purpose to thwart me!”

“I can play,” put in Peter hopefully.

“Thanks, Wormy, but I have a bet with Pads here that I can get Moony to play – and beat him too – before Fifth year is done.”

Sirius chuckled around a large potato. “Face it Prongsie boy, you’re going to lose your five galleons.”

James pouted. Remus smiled. “Maybe I can save you another time. I really do have to finish my book tonight.”

“But exams are just over. You can’t want to study again already!” Peter chimed in through a mouthful of peas.

“Not a school book, Pete,” Remus explained patiently. “It’s a play Mary lent me. I’d like to finish it and return it to her before the holidays are over.”

“So Mary lent it to you, did she, Rem?” James said, and raised his eyebrow suggestively.

Sirius looked up from his plate and grinned as a blush spread across Remus’ cheeks. Last term, Remus had rescued Mary MacDonald, who was in the year above them, from a nasty situation involving Mulciber, a multiplying curse and the Devil’s Snare in greenhouse three. Since then, Remus and Mary had struck up a tentative friendship, now blossoming into something deeper, strengthened by their mutual love of all things literary.

“What’s the book then? Another play – Much Ado about Nothing? The Merchant of Venice? It’s by this Shakeseer fellow, isn’t it?”

“Shakes _peare_ , Padfoot. And it’s The Taming of the Shrew this time.”

“Ah, I know the one!” Sirius grinned and flung out an arm exuberantly. “I’ve seen it in the library! How does it go - Away, you three – inch fool! I am no bea- Merlin, sorry, Pete!”

Sirius’ arm had caught Peter with a mouth full of pumpkin juice. He spluttered and glared at the stain spreading down his shirt, scrubbing at it with the handful of tissues Sirius placed before him. Several fourth years in the vicinity sniggered rather unpleasantly, and Peter flushed.

Sirius suddenly felt bad for his friend. The chubby boy was often laughed at by his schoolfellows for his weight and general awkwardness, but this time he was humiliated through no fault of his own. Sirius rose hastily, stuffing the last potato into his mouth, and set off towards the dormitories, the other three following in his wake.

Once there, he kicked off his shoes, unknotted his tie and flopped against his pillows with a dramatic sigh. “I’m bored. Wish we could fly. Or take a trip to the kitchens. I could do with a custard cream or three.”

“You just had dinner, Padfoot.”

“There’s always room for custard creams, Peter. What about chess, then? Since Moony seems so averse to Gobstones?”

Remus looked up from his worn trunk, in which he was arranging the last of his clean socks. He’d just finished reading the well-thumbed copy of The Taming of the Shrew, and it lay next to the trunk on his bed, ready to be returned to Mary the next morning.

“I’m just not in the mood to have bilge water squirted into my face, thanks,” Remus said dryly. “But we could always duel, if you like.”

“Brilliant idea, Moony! You always come up with the best plans.”

Sirius beamed and leapt off his bed, snatching up his wand from the bedside table and moved into the middle of the room. His earlier exhaustion had lessened greatly, but the encounter with the Slytherins had left him feeling skittish, and a play-duel was right up his street.

Peter squeaked and scrambled aside as jets of lights and sparks flew from both wands. They had friendly duels ever since first year; it was excellent practice for their Defence, Charms and Transfiguration classes. Peter was hopeless at duelling; usually one of the others would help him, but Sirius and Remus were both too focused on the battle to think of him now.

The door to the bathroom opened, and James stepped out in pyjamas, just as Remus got Sirius with a well–placed _Tarantallegra_.

“Oh are you duelling, then? Excellent!” James exclaimed happily and sat down beside Peter on his bed to watch.

Sirius hobbled around the room, trying to gain control of his legs, which insisted on dancing with wild abandon. He managed to wordlessly counter the hex, and turned to Remus with a glint in his eye.

“Uh oh,” said Remus, his face paling as he noted Sirius’ wicked grin.

_“Sternustatio!-”_

_“Prurius maximus-”_

_“Commutatio cerulio!”_

_“Follicosis!”_

The hexes flew back and forth faster than the eye could see. Remus cast a sneezing hex that had Sirius bent double at the waist, gasping for breath.

“ _R-r-rictusempra,_ ” he gasped at last, pointing his wand at Remus. Taken unawares, the sandy haired boy sank to the ground, weak with laughter.

The other three boys stared at their friend for a moment before breaking out in laughter as well.

It took several minutes before Remus could calm down enough to counter the tickling hex himself, after which he gathered up his nightclothes and vanished into the bathroom, signalling the end of the duel.

Sirius quickly changed into his own pyjamas, rubbing salve into the bruises on his elbows and knees left by the duel. He then cast himself on his bed, exhausted, and unaware of the blue hair his friend had gifted him with. He drew the curtains on his four-poster bed, rolled over, and promptly fell asleep.

 

*******

 

“En can we ’ome round to yours, ’Rongs?” asked Peter through a mouthful of pumpkin pasties, spraying crumbs lightly on the floor of the carriage. Sirius looked up from his chocolate frog and sniggered, despite it not being really funny.

“Any day after the third, mate. Mum and Dad have to go Uncle Cyrus’ tomorrow, and won’t be back till the third. Don’t see why they won’t let me have you over while they’re away.” James grumbled good-naturedly, neatly vanishing the pastry crumbs on the floor with a flick of his wand.

Remus looked away from the window at this. He had been quiet for most of the journey, watching the countryside flash past as the Hogwarts Express made its way to London.

“Maybe one of you is all they can handle at a time. Four Marauders when they are away would spell disaster for the house.”

James scowled playfully at Remus while Sirius laughed. Sirius had to admit that Remus was not incorrect. The previous summer, Mr. and Mrs. Potter had been away for the day when the Marauders arrived unannounced. When they returned, it was to find an entire crate of Filibuster’s wet-start fireworks whizzing around the courtyard, and the summerhouse in ruins, while their two small house elves stood by, wringing their hands in despair. The Potters had not been pleased, and neither James nor Sirius cared to think about the consequences of that little escapade.

Remus left soon after to talk to Mary, and returned rather red-faced with another book in his arms, and a pile of Quidditch magazines. “Here” he said, dropping them gracelessly into Sirius’ lap. “Met McKinnon on the way and she send these for you.” A sly smile tugged at his lips. Sirius stuck his tongue out, and was on the verge of making a face at his best friend, when he glanced down at the magazines.

“Hey! These are the mags that went missing last month from our dormitory! How did she end up with them?”

“Maybe she nicked them off your bedside table,” Peter said.

Sirius wrinkled his brow in puzzlement. “McKinnon isn’t the type to take a remembrall that isn’t hers, let alone a great pile of Quidditch books.”

Several girls – mostly from the lower years, had tried their luck at sneaking in to the boys’ rooms and pilfering souvenirs from the boys they liked. As a result of their popularity, the Marauders were often the victims of such light-hearted tricks. Luckily, they were also sharp-witted, and so the perpetrators of said tricks found their hands or noses mysteriously turning pink, or the stolen items following them around, thumping them on the head until they were returned to their rightful places.

“Doesn’t mean it isn’t her, even if she isn’t the type to do it,” Peter remarked. “It’s always the ones you don’t suspect.”

Sirius was buried fathoms deep in a statistical analysis of Kenmare Kestrels’ leading Chaser Purdy Porterfield, when a diversion appeared at the door in the form of a sneering Severus Snape and his henchmen.

“What do you want, Snape?” he barked.

“Nothing to do with _you_ , filthy blood-traitor,” Snape sneered. He had his wand out. Sirius noticed that Remus and James both had their wands clutched in their hands as well, and that Peter was trembling too much to pull his own out of his back pocket.

“Potter – You think you’re so wonderful, don’t you, strutting around the place, hexing students at every turn. I’m warning you, leave Lily alone –”

“I could say the same thing to you, _Snivellus_ ,” James countered coolly. “ Not that she’ll want to have anything more to do with you now that you – ah – _inadvertently_ called her that filthy word; not a hope of getting in her –”

Snape turned pale at James’ words, but it was not he who cast the hex. Sirius felt a sudden stinging in his left wrist, and glared at a grinning Mulciber, drawing his own wand. Before Snape could curse James and before Sirius could retaliate, Remus stood up and calmly stepped in front of Snape.

“Enough” Remus said calmly. He pointed to the Prefect’s badge on his chest. “Get out, _now_.” Snape and Mulciber both looked angry enough to continue the fight, but Avery, perhaps remembering their altercation three days earlier, pulled them away hurriedly. Remus watched them stumble towards the passage.

“Oh and Snape,” he said sweetly, dangerously, “James is right – your virginity breeds mites, much like a cheese.” He slammed the door in the face of the stunned Slytherins.

“Sorry mates,” Remus murmured, looking at his dumbstruck friends. “Shakespeare. I couldn’t resist.” Sirius and James smiled, and clapped him enthusiastically on the shoulder, while Peter gave him a look of deepest admiration. Sirius had never before appreciated quite how sarcastic and humorous Remus could be.

Sirius’ spirits dropped sharply as the day wore on and their journey drew to a close. When the train at last drew into the station, his heart resided in his shoes. James, ever perceptive, whispered “You can always come round to my place anytime, Padfoot, if things get too bad at yours.”

Remus too, smiled sympathetically and squeezed his hand before turning to help Peter with his trunk.

The lump in Sirius’ throat diminished momentarily when he stepped onto the platform and saw Mr. and Mrs. Potter beaming and waving at both James and him. He found it was not too difficult to summon up an answering smile as he followed James to where they were standing. He was immediately enveloped in a hug from Dorea Potter, while Charlus did the same to James.

“Hello dear.” Dorea smiled, her motherly face alight with love. She ran a hand down his cheek and smoothed back his shaggy black locks. “Did you have a good term?” Sirius’ eyes prickled unexpectedly at the small gesture of affection. He couldn’t remember his own mother ever touching him like that.

“It was all right. O.W.Ls were easy enough, Mrs. Potter – Aunt Dorea –” he corrected himself with a small smile at her playful frown. “Quidditch was good this year. We won the championship thanks to James’ thirty-eight goal streak!”

Charlus Potter, a tall man with a greying thatch of unruly hair and keen hazel eyes – two of the many attributes his son had inherited – chuckled at this last remark.

“I heard a whisper about that, I believe. One letter, I believe, Jamie? One letter a day, detailing all the play-by-plays.” They all laughed as James turned red and bumped his father’s shoulder.

“Daaaad!” He exclaimed, pouting playfully.

Charlus turned to Sirius next, and laid a hand on his shoulder. “And I’m sure you played your part in the victory as well. You are an excellent beater, Sirius. And how is the injury now?” Charlus’ expression softened to one of concern as he gently took Sirius’ arm and turned it to examine the faded blue spot, which was all that remained of a nasty encounter with a bludger.

“It’s much better now,” Sirius replied gratefully. “Hardly hurts at all. Madam Pomfrey fixed it in time for the finals, thank Merlin.” He had fallen off his broom and had been knocked out when the bludger had smashed into his forearm. When he awoke hours later in the Hospital Wing, it was to find the anxious faces of Mr. and Mrs. Potter staring down at him.

There had been no sign of his own parents, not even a letter to inquire after his recovery.

The four of them conversed happily as they jostled their way through the crowds as they headed towards the pillar leading to the muggle part of King’s Cross; Charlus nodded to Frank Longbottom, his current Auror protégée who’d been Head Boy three years previously, and had come to collect his girlfriend Alice MacMillan, who’d been Head Girl this year, and James collided with Evans, who stumbled over his trunk.

James stiffened at the contact, but Evans, ever mercurial, only smiled briefly and said, “Thanks Potter. Have a good holiday,” and vanished through the barrier, leaving a stymied – and elated – James behind.

When the Potters reached the exit, Charlus reached up and gripped Sirius’ shoulder, keen hazel eyes boring into Sirius’ grey ones. “You are welcome at Potter Manor anytime, Sirius; whether Aunt Dorea and I are at home or not. I trust you will remember that.”

With a nod and forced smile, Sirius raised his hand in farewell and watched their retreating backs. Then he turned to look for his brother, and upon spotting him, turned to make his way towards Kreacher – their sour-faced house elf who stood in a corner of the platform – dragging his heavy trunk behind him.


	3. Not Quite Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Sirius,” Mother replied stiffly. “Have you not yet learned to enter a room with the grace that befits your birth?”

The whirling green flames spat Sirius out onto the gloomy and antiquated living room hearth of Number 12, Grimmauld Place. He lay prone on the cold wooden floor for a moment, breathing in the pungent smell of mokeswax polish and expired mothballs. The grey stone walls were closing in on him, he thought, and he shut his eyes, nerves tingling, anticipating the sickening crunch of stone on flesh.

Nothing happened.

The sound of whooshing flames brought him to his senses, and he scrambled to his feet and moved aside hastily, just as the Floo flared and deposited Regulus and Kreacher with a mighty thump at his feet. He was not fast enough to avoid the three trunks that followed them though, and one banged into the backs of his knees, toppling him over with a grunt onto his mother, who was watching the proceedings impassively.

“Mother,” Sirius said, once he had got to his feet, shaken soot out of his shaggy black hair, and removed tiny splinters of wood from his knees.

“Sirius,” Mother replied stiffly. “Have you not yet learned to enter a room with the grace that befits your birth?”

Sirius rolled his eyes. “Nice to see you too, Mum,” he said, and caught her enthusiastically around the shoulders in an overt embrace. Mostly, he did it just to annoy her – the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black did not do such terribly Plebeian things as hugging, after all – but a small part of him always hoped that she would hug him back.

She did not reciprocate the hug, but she didn’t step away immediately, either. She just stared with faint distaste at the tiny droplets of blood that were making their way down Sirius’ legs, from the splinter-punctures on his knees.

“Regulus,” Mother said at last, stepping away from Sirius, and turning to his younger brother, who had been watching them with an odd, closed expression on his face.

“Mother,” Regulus answered softly, inclining his head.

“You have done well this term, Regulus,” Mother said. “Your marks were excellent” – Sirius snorted to himself; Reg was certainly a bright student, but Sirius’ own marks were just as good, if not better – “and you have behaved in a manner that brings honour to our family. Your father and I are proud of you.” She ghosted a hand over Reg’s hair as she spoke, a mere flicker of movement, and Reg angled ever so slightly into her touch. Sirius felt something – he did not know what – shoot across his chest as he watched his little brother’s eyes light up behind their thin glasses, and his expression open out for a second.

“Sirius,” Mother continued, shooting a glare at him over the top of Reg’s head, “We have had yet more owls from your Head-of-House informing us of _yet more_ detentions you have incurred for hexing Slytherins _yet again_. Will this ever stop, Sirius? Why can’t you behave more like Regulus, with honour and pride?”

“Of course not, Mother,” Sirius said, sounding genuinely hurt. “ _I’m_ the older brother; Reggie should be following _my_ example! What do you say, Reggie? We win all the Quidditch matches all the time – Slytherin hadn’t a chance against us this year” – Sirius grinned inwardly as he saw Reg pout slightly – “so naturally we have the best parties too – and we’re mates with all the house elves, so we can nick the best food from the  kitchens.” He looked at his brother, whose eyes met his; the corners of Reg’s mouth twitched upwards, and he appeared to be struggling to control his smile. Sirius gave his own grin at this.

“Enough!” spat Mother, sounding angry instead of bored for the first time that day. “Hexing Slytherins! Slytherins, Sirius! What is the meaning of this? These are the future allies of our family. How can we hope to maintain our standing amongst them if you insist on behaving like some common Mudblood? And what about all those Mudbloods and filth you consort with in Gryffindor? They are not worthy to wipe the dust from our shoes, and yet you call them friends!”

“They _are_ my friends, Mother,” Sirius answered coolly. “Yes, I have real friends – people who actually care about me, and whom I care about – a great deal. I’m aware the notion must be quite alien to you; after all, our family only has _allies_ and _consorts_ and _minions_ , don’t we, Mother?”

He grinned as he saw an ugly red flush creeping up her neck and face, and noted with some amusement that she was trembling slightly. Her feet twitched as well, and for a fleeting second, Sirius thought she might actually begin to dance with rage – something he would have dearly loved to see, but then she put her feet down, and stood quite firmly on the rug.

She opened her mouth – obviously to berate him – but appeared unable to from coherent sentences, because she simply spluttered, opening and closing her mouth, eyes popping, looking remarkably like a dying goldfish. Sirius snickered quietly, but sobered quickly when he caught the warning glint in Reg’s eyes.

“Enough!” Mother cried again, finally regaining control of her speech.

“Shame of my flesh! This is not the way we have taught you to speak. Watch your mouth, you disrespectful whelp! Make no mistake, your father will be hearing about this behaviour. Go to your room, and don’t take a step outside until dinner!”

 Still breathing heavily, she turned her attention to Reg. “And you may go and rest, Regulus. Change for dinner, because your father wishes to speak to you both during the meal. Kreacher, take the trunks upstairs and light the fires in the bedrooms. We will dine at seven.”

She shot a last malevolent glare at Sirius, turned, and with an elegant swish of her long black skirts, swept out of the room.

Kreacher meanwhile, bowed lowly at her retreating back, then levitated the three trunks with a snap of his fingers – dropping one on Sirius’ foot in the process – and shuffled out of the living room after Mother, mumbling about living to serve the House of Black, and flinching when Sirius’ well-aimed retaliatory kick caught him in the side.

Behind him, Sirius and Reg exchanged a look, and dove for the staircase.

*******

“Are you really going to wear that?” Reg asked, raising a single eyebrow – a trick he faithfully practised every night in front of the mirror, Sirius knew, and one which always reminded him of Remus, though _his_ ability to lift his eyebrow was natural – and staring at the bright red long-sleeved shirt Sirius had donned in preparation for dinner.

“Why Reggie? What’s wrong with it?”

“Gives off the impression that you’re trying too hard – too Gryffindor. Looks forced.”

“I am a Gryffindor,” Sirius said. He made a face at Reg in the mirror, but he knew his brother was right, so he sighed and removed the offending garment, and pulled a boring, plain black shirt on instead. Reg’s brow furrowed for a moment, but then he stuck his tongue out at Sirius, making him grin.

“Anyway,” Reg continued, sitting on the bed and scuffing the toes of his shoes along the rich brocade carpet, “Father will be angry enough about the detentions, you don’t need to add any more fuel to the fire with poor wardrobe choices.”

“Ah, but you see, my sweet little brother, I live to annoy our _dear_ parents.”

“But _why_ , Sirius?” Reg burst out suddenly, uncharacteristically. “Why do you always insist on starting a row the very minute we get home? Don’t you know how hard it is on all of us? Why can’t you just try to get along for once?”

“ _Get along?_ Reggie, did you hear what she called my friends? She called them filth – Remus and Peter and James – _James_ – how can you expect me not to stand up for them” – they were the main reason that Sirius was still breathing, still had a reason to live, to try to make something of his life, something worthwhile, but he wasn’t about to tell Reg that; after all, he loved Reg fiercely too – “and just keep quiet and _get along_?”

Reg’s face had fallen as Sirius grew more agitated; he was staring at the carpet now, and his face was flushed. Sirius was striding about his bedroom as he spoke, but when he turned and saw Reg, his anger abated. He stopped his tirade and crouched down in front of Reg; put his hands on the younger boy’s shoulders.

“Reggie,” Sirius said very quietly, staring deep into his brother’s slate eyes, so like his own, yet so conspicuously lacking the spark of brightness that was ever-present in Sirius’, “do you have any friends?”

“I’m perfectly happy –”

“No,” Sirius cut him off, “I mean people who you can talk to about anything, who will have your back in any situation, whom you can trust with your life?”

Reg was silent.

Sirius moved his hand down to rest on top of Reg’s. “That’s what a friend does, Reg. They care about you, they give, and they don’t expect anything in return. An ally, or those our family are supposed to make ties with anyway, will always expect a favour in return. And they won’t hesitate to turn their backs on you if you can’t make that return. A friend – a friend never will; they’ll stick by you. Always. Even” – Sirius swallowed the sudden lump in his throat, thinking of Snape, and the Whomping Willow, and Remus’ face the morning after, tear-streaked and wide-eyed in disbelief – “even when you make mistakes.”

“I know you mean Rosier and Wilkes,” Reg said quietly. “And Severus, too,” he added, seeing Sirius open his mouth, “but Severus is kind to me. He’s taciturn, that’s just his way. He hasn’t made any demands, or – or tried to coerce me into anything.” Sirius bit down his retort; he had a profound dislike for that snivelling nosy parker, but he did not want to say anything to dampen Reg’s spirit.

“That’s good, then, I suppose,” he said instead. “But you’ve got to watch your step, Reg, even with Sniv- Snape. Kindness isn’t a definite assurance of friendship.”

Reg silently nodded by way of answer, but Sirius could see that he was going over the conversation in his mind. Reg wasn’t much of a talker, but he was certainly a thinker.

“And as I asked,” said Reg, sticking with unusual tenacity to his original point, “can you please try not to provoke arguments on purpose? I’d really like to have a bit of peace and quiet, at least at the start of the holidays.”

“Can’t promise, but I’ll try my best,” Sirius answered. His parents always rubbed him the wrong way, and put his back up with the very first words they said to him every time they saw him, but he was willing to try for Reg’s sake. And Reg was heading into his O.W.L year in September, so Sirius figured he deserved the chance to have a quiet place to study, for a change.

Sirius shook out the creases on his trousers, smoothed the collar of his shirt, which had been crumpled in the heat of his rant; the mirror over his dressing table sniggered, and made a rude remark, and Sirius made at a face at it – glanced at his watch, and yelped.

“Dinner time already! We’ll be late! Well, don’t sit there like a gargoyle! Come on, up you get.” Sirius took Reg’s arm, and unceremoniously yanked him to his feet.

“Coming...coming,” Reg muttered, frowning, and rubbing absently at his abused arm. He removed his smudged spectacles and wiped them on a corner of his shirt. “I hate these Merlinforsaken things,” he groused, following Sirius out of the room and down the stairs. “I still feel like I’m going to fall flat on my face every time I tackle a staircase while wearing them.”

“I’d pay to see that,” Sirius grinned. “Regulus Arcturus Black, paragon of public posture and deportment, tumbling down the stairs like a puppy?”

Still, he extended an arm to steady his brother and help him down the rest of the way. “You’ve only been wearing them for a few days yet, you’ll get used to it soon enough. James has been wearing his glasses for years, and he says he still has trouble navigating his way around every time he gets a new pair.”

Orion and Walburga were waiting for them when at last they walked into the dining room. Mother’s nostrils were flared, and her eyes were still shooting sparks, but Father merely looked impassive as always, and he idly fiddled with the cuffs of his elegant green robes. He raised an eyebrow and glanced pointedly at the clock when he saw them, but he didn’t say anything; just signalled to Kreacher to bring in the first course, and drew out the chair for Mother to sit.

“It has come to my attention, Sirius,” Father said, delicately hooking a potato onto his fork, once they were all served, “that you have not ceased to clash with your fellow students. Those whom we find in our social circles, I might add. And your mother informs me that you have been rude to her today – though that is nothing extraordinary, you are rude and uncouth every day of your life.”

“I hexed Slytherins, Father. Not my – ah – _fellow_ students.” Sirius ignored the latter half of his father’s remark; he was too used to that sort of jibe for it to have an effect on him.

“Is there a difference?”

“They indiscriminately curse the other houses; they injure the First-years. They don’t stop at pranking, but aim for bodily harm, Father, and grievous bodily harm at that! Dark curses, too. Regulus told you about what Mulciber did to Mary MacDonald, didn’t he?”

“That should be none of your concern! She’s a filthy little Mudbl-”

Father held up a hand to silence Mother.

“Their private...amusements...are not our business, Sirius. The fate of a few Mudbloods and Halfbloods will not matter in the long run. These people you so revile are those you will associate with, once you leave Hogwarts. You will therefore treat them with courtesy. Have I made myself clear to you?”

Sirius set his jaw and made to speak, but Father quelled him with a look. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Reg shake his head mutely, his expression pleading.

Sirius looked into Father’s grey eyes. “Yes,” he answered, suppressing a shiver at the unnerving, steely glint he saw in them.

He had been hungry, having had nothing to eat since the Pumpkin Pasties he ate on the train, but now his appetite was completely lost. He poked glumly at the chicken on his plate before giving it up as a bad job. He watched Reg as he shovelled the last of his vegetables into his mouth, and then turned his attention back to Father, who had cleared his own plate, and was ordering Kreacher to bring in dessert.

“Now, boys,” said Father, once they were all supplied with dessert, “Narcissa’s wedding is next Thursday.”

Sirius choked on his rhubarb crumble. “She’s actually going through with it?”

“Of course.” A muscle twitched at the corner of Father’s mouth. “Lucius is an educated and...resourceful...young man” – Sirius scoffed inwardly, he knew Father didn’t like Lucius’ slippery ways of getting out of his responsibilities, for all that he talked about resourcefulness – “We will be attending as guests of honour.”

He turned those chilly eyes upon Sirius. “Bellatrix will be attending with Rodolphus. She has a matter of importance to discuss with you.”

“About what?”

“The new movement to elevate Pureblood families to their rightful status.”

“The Pureblood families rule the roost already. The best positions in society, the best jobs at the ministry, all the international appointments, more than half of the Wizengamot. What more is there to do, Father?”

“The purification of wizarding blood is necessary in these times, Sirius. Luckily for us, there is someone who has taken the initiative in this matter.”

“You mean Lord Voldemort. His campaign to eliminate Muggleborns. And eventually the Halfbloods too.”

Father ignored this last remark, set down his fork and focused his attention fully on his eldest son.

“You will listen to what Bella has to say, and should she have any...proposition...for you, you will inform me of the details. You will act according to what the traditions of our family dictate, and I will inform you now Sirius, that you will have no leeway in this matter.”

He pinned Sirius with eyes that resembled nothing so much as pools of frozen steel. “Disobey our instructions, and the consequences will be...unpleasant. Do I make myself clear?”

 _Voldemort? Bellatrix? Proposition?_ Sirius’s stomach roiled. He battled a wave of nausea as he stared at his father. He knew only too well the sinister connotations of the word _unpleasant._

_“Do I make myself clear?”_

“Crystal,” he ground out, seeing that Father required an answer.

He looked over at Reg, whose eyes were wide and confused behind his thin lenses, and at his mother, who was frowning heavily, her lips drawn into a thin, white line.

Sirius swallowed, and then focused his gaze on the shimmering serpentine chandelier hung overhead; trying with all his might not to vomit all over the remains of his meal.


	4. My Side Of The Fence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You may have guessed by now, Sirius, that my presence here was not solely to observe the effects of a cursed teacup upon my unfortunate nephew.”

“She looks like a bloody fairy.”

“I think she looks pretty.”

“ _He_ looks even more like a fairy. It’s that whacking great tail of blond hair.”

Regulus snickered as Sirius’ last remark. “I agree with you on that,” he said, and followed Sirius’ line of sight to where Lucius Malfoy, newlywed, stood, resplendent in high-necked white silk robes and a sleek, fair mane of hair, tied back neatly with a matching velvet bow. He was talking to Cantankerous Nott and Judas Selwyn, with a hand on the arm of his new bride, who had a small, fixed smile on her face.

“Wish I could go and pull off that damned bow,” Sirius muttered out of the corner of his mouth. “Or turn it turquoise. See how flustered Lucy can get.”

“Not much chance of it,” Reg replied thoughtfully. “Old Cranky or the Traitor would spot you, even if you did a Disillusionment charm first. And they wouldn’t hesitate to hex your balls off, either.” Sirius grinned; Reg’s haughty Pureblood facade was flawless in public, but he could be great fun when he let his guard down in private – even in the middle of a society wedding.

“But,” Reg continued, an impish grin spreading over his face, “I see old Aunt Callidora over there, no meddling old men about – _and_ she’s wearing her wig.”

Sirius looked across where Reg indicated, and sure enough, there was an enormous old lady in lacy, frilly purple robes, wearing an untidy and very obviously fake blond wig, tucking away into some delicacies of a dubious nature.

Sirius grinned. “Perfect.”

For a moment, he was tempted to change into Padfoot and cause a general ruckus as well – he knew that several of the older ladies and gentlemen were scared of dogs – but discarded the idea almost immediately. Even if no one saw him transforming, he wasn’t fast enough to dodge the hexes that would certainly be sent his way, and he was not at all keen to catch the wrong end of a Hormorphous charm, if any bright soul questioned how a dog got into a private garden party.

Winking at Regulus, he cast the Disillusionment charm on himself, wishing that he had James’ invisibility cloak right now. He made his way carefully over to Aunt Callidora, avoiding small groups of people in his path, and stood directly behind her.

Aunt Callidora continued to make her way through Cornish pixie vol-au-vents and a glass of elf-made wine, blissfully unconscious of the presence behind her.

Sirius reached out and whipped the wig off her head.

For a second, nothing happened. Then –

“My hair! My hair! Somebody help! My wig’s been stolen!” Aunt Callidora dropped her plate and whirled round in a panic.

She lashed out behind her, and almost caught Sirius on the shoulder. He moved back quickly, but the wig slipped from his grasp. His eyes widened, but before he could reach for his wand –

_“Wingardium Leviosa!”_

The wig floated in the air at Aunt Callidora’s eye-level, slightly out of her reach.

Sirius grinned; Reg’s quick spellwork had saved him. He made his way back to his brother, who was very obviously hiding his own smirk, and, removing the Disillusionment charm, carefully guided the wig to a tall Flutterby bush nearby – Aunt Callidora followed it, stumbling and making frantic, futile grabs at it – and hooked it on the topmost twig.

The Flutterby bush quivered, and tiny strands of the blond flax began to disappear into the depths of the greenery. Aunt Callidora let out a squawk and began to dither.

“Mission accomplished,” Sirius murmured. Regulus chuckled.

 

*******

 

“Hello, boys.”

Sirius whirled around. Uncle Alphard was standing just behind him, looking down at them, grey eyes dancing with amusement.

“Congratulations on a well-executed prank, Sirius, Regulus. I see the Flutterbies are enjoying their little snack. Callidora will have to invest in a new wig.”

“Uncle Alphard! What are you doing here?” Sirius lowered his voice, “I didn’t think you liked – er – this sort of company.”

Alphard’s eyes twinkled. “You mean, how on earth did I end up with an invitation?”

Reg wriggled uneasily, but Sirius looked up at his uncle. “Well, that too.  I’d have thought that Mother would have persuaded Uncle Cygnus to prune the guest list to her satisfaction. And anyway, more than that – this isn’t your usual taste in house parties.”

“Your aunt Druella has a curious sense of the proprieties. Oh I daresay you are right; Walburga would have done her level best to get little Cyggie” – Sirius chuckled, it wasn’t every day that he heard his dark, brooding giant of an uncle being referred to as _little Cyggie – “_ to keep me off the roll, but Druella insisted. She and my dear niece Narcissa share an overwhelming horror of being the root of any gossip our beloved family might share.”

Uncle Alphard wrinkled his nose, and, adopting a falsetto, said, “Oh my dear, _did_ you hear about the Malfoy wedding? The bride’s father’s brother wasn’t invited! And all because of the wedding present! I heard he sent the bride a set of nose-biting teacups, but they took the Malfoy boy’s little boy parts off instead.” Uncle Alphard lowered his voice at the end, and Sirius let out a bark of laughter.

Reg, who was fond of Narcissa, but not of Lucius, looked torn between disapproval and amusement. “Did you really send them nose-biting teacups?” he asked.

“Of course I did. Finest thirteenth century goblin-wrought silver. And a set of finger-pinching saucers to match them. Originally used as a defence mechanism. There is a forty eight hour guarantee on injuries done to the user’s face and hands.”

“But what about Malfoy’s little boy parts?” Sirius asked, chortling.

“Ah, the guarantee for bits has long since expired, I believe.” Uncle Alphard winked. “Lucius is limping today. That should give us a hint.” They turned and stared for a moment at Malfoy, who was looking very uncomfortable indeed; Cantankerous was gesturing violently with his heavy walking-stick, and Malfoy was dodging it – and wincing – whenever it came too close to areas of interest.

Uncle Alphard cleared his throat and turned away from the spectacle to face Sirius. “I wonder if I might have a word with you,” he said quietly. He glanced at Reg, who was staring wide-eyed up at him. “Regulus, would you give us a moment?”

Reg shot Sirius a quizzical look, but turned away, and somewhat reluctantly made his way towards a house elf laden with a platter of caviar and smoked salmon. Sirius turned, puzzled, to his uncle, who looked at him thoughtfully for a moment, then beckoned to Sirius to follow him.

Alphard lead Sirius along the pathway, away from the noisy crowds, and stopped beside a small clump of trees.

“You may have guessed by now, Sirius, that my presence here was not solely to observe the effects of a cursed teacup upon my unfortunate nephew.”

Sirius nodded. He had suspected that Uncle Alphard had not turned up to the wedding merely for the hell of it. There was no love lost between his uncle and the rest of the family, the adults, at least. He liked Reg well enough, though he often said the boy should learn to make up his own mind, without letting others walk all over him, wasn’t averse to Narcissa, was very fond of Andromeda, but she had been disowned, so was naturally absent from the party, and that left –

“You came to see me?”

“Yes,” Uncle Alphard replied tersely. “I have something of importance to discuss with you, Sirius. I preferred to have a direct conversation rather than owl you – the owl may have been intercepted, am I correct?”

Sirius nodded. His mother would certainly confiscate – and burn – any letters from Uncle Alphard, and would probably kill the owl too, for good measure.

“You know what the situation is, in England,” Uncle Alphard continued, “Voldemort is on the rise, he is gathering followers by the hundred, and of course, our _ancient_ and most _noble_ pureblood family is a rich source of such followers.” He gave Sirius a wry smile. “I expect Bella is already enamoured, eh, Sirius?”

“If she could have her way, she’d be married to him.”

“She is insane enough to do so, if she could.” Alphard paused, and then laid a hand on Sirius’ shoulder. “I don’t know how much you truly know, Sirius, you are sheltered from all these things at Hogwarts –”

“I know he is going after Muggleborns and Halfbloods,” Sirius said quickly. “Some of the kids in school have parents that have gone into hiding.”

“That is not all, or even the worst of it. He wishes to eliminate all whom he deems unworthy – be they Muggles or Wizards, and his final aim is power, and power alone. He is quickly gaining followers in other countries as well, Sirius. Ireland and Scotland already have a large number of Death Eaters, and Italy, Germany and Bulgaria will follow suit.”

“How – how do you know all this?”

“I’ve been travelling,” Uncle Alphard answered quietly. “I’ve been all over Europe in the past three years, before going on to the tropics of South Asia – forgive me if I didn’t write to you at school, Sirius, I had no permanent address and the bloody birds in the Subcontinent refuse to deliver mail unless you feed them coconut curry beforehand – anyway, I was doing some…research…of my own, and keeping an eye out about the Death Eater activities in those areas.”

“And you think it’s going to get worse.” It wasn’t a question. The look on his uncle’s face spoke volumes.

“The Romanoffs, the most powerful Pureblood extended family in Bulgaria, numbering almost a hundred members, were offered positions in Voldemort’s ranks. They refused. That night, they were slaughtered in their beds. Not your usual _Avada Kedavra_. Tortured beyond recognition, and their dead bodies violated. Only one boy escaped. One out of a hundred.”

Sirius drew in a breath. “It could happen to us,” he said. “It has _already_ started happening to us, only _our family said yes_.” His eyes widened. “Father said that Bella wanted to speak to me about something…a proposition… _oh_.”

Blood rushed to Sirius’ head.

“I always knew they took this blood purity nonsense too far – _Toujours Pur_ and all that rubbish – but if they think I’m going to join up with their little gang, they’ve got another think coming!” Sirius said angrily. “Why would they want me anyway? It’s not like I’ve ever shown any interest in their – their carnal, inhuman ways!”

“Quite a large part of the Death Eater activities are being funded by the Black family wealth. You can imagine how much this delights Bella and Rodolphus – and now Lucius, too, I suppose,” Uncle Alphard said, not bothering to hide the disdain in his voice.

“That’s why the Lestranges are trying so hard to recruit you. The heir of the Blacks would be the crown jewel in the little band they have already gathered for the Death Eaters. It would seal their deal as Voldemort’s most loyal – and useful – supporters, no doubt.”

Sirius digested this information silently. There wasn’t anything he could say, really; he was well aware of the many ways in which people, even his own extended family, tried to take advantage of his heirship, or of the family coffers , so he just snorted contemptuously.

“It will be my pleasure to disappoint them, then,” Sirius said coldly. Uncle Alphard looked rather pleased.

“There’s something else I wanted to talk to you about,” Uncle Alphard said. His voice sounded queer; hesitant, and a little subdued. Sirius looked up curiously.

“I’ll be resuming my travels soon,” Uncle Alphard said. “I’d like you to keep this.” He produced a square package wrapped in plain paper, and handed it to Sirius. “Put it away in a safe place when you’re at home, it’s reactive to certain forms of dark magic. And if you’re leaving home, take it with you.”

Sirius examined the parcel curiously, but didn’t open it; he could see several figures heading in their direction. It was fairly small, and a faint scent of something pleasant, which he couldn’t recognise, rose up through the wrapping. He put the package in the mokeskin pouch he kept in the pocket of his robes. “What is it?”

“Something you might find useful,” Uncle Alphard replied lightly. “Suffice to say it’s from my travels.”

“How long will you be gone this time?”

“Actually, there is a fair chance that I might not return.”

“ _WHAT?”_

“I’m ill,” Uncle Alphard said shortly.

Sirius stared at his uncle. When he’d first seen the man, he’d been so overjoyed that he hadn’t really looked at his uncle. On closer examination, he could detect faint dark circles under his eyes and a slight pallor to his skin that would not have been present in a healthy man. Alphard was in the same black dress robes that he had been wearing at their last meeting, but they hung slightly off his frame now.

“You’re – you’re not dying are you?” Sirius asked softly, after a moment.

Uncle Alphard chuckled dryly. “Eventually, we all have to, but I’ll try to abstain from that pleasure just yet.”

“If you’re ill, why are you travelling? Shouldn’t you be resting at home?”

“The dampness in the air here isn’t conducive to convalescence. And I’ve been taking some treatment – South Asia has some remedies for this…sort of illness. They can cure it, or delay symptoms effectively for a great length of time.”

“At least owl me then,” Sirius said, a tad testily. “I don’t want to suddenly hear from someone that my favourite uncle has dropped down dead.”

“My research is still going on,” Uncle Alphard said. “I might have to vanish from time to time. I’ll still send you word when I can,” he added hastily, seeing Sirius’ face grow sour. He glanced beyond Sirius’ shoulder and frowned. Sirius heard the faint sound of approaching footsteps.

Alphard put his hand on Sirius’ shoulder and ducked his head, looking his nephew in the eye. “Things are coming to a head. We all have to make our choices. I’ve already made mine; your turn will be coming soon.”

Sirius opened his mouth, but Uncle Alphard stopped him with a shake of his head.

“Sometimes, the grass seems greener on the other side of the fence, but that is just an illusion. The path maybe rough, but remember you’ve got conviction on your side.” The hand on his shoulder squeezed slightly. “I have faith in you,” Uncle Alphard said quietly. “I know you will choose well.”

Sirius nodded, and then swung around when he heard a crunch of gravel. Father was standing there, gazing coldly at them.

“Bella wishes to speak with you, Sirius,” he said. “Alphard.” He inclined his head stiffly to Uncle Alphard, who nodded back equally stiffly. Father then started back towards the house without waiting for Sirius.

 “Right – I’ll…write to you then,” Sirius said awkwardly.

“Goodbye, Sirius.”

“Goodbye, Uncle Alphard.”

Sirius hurried after Father, but turned midway and looked back.

Uncle Alphard was watching him sadly, but he gave a small smile and waved.

Sirius swallowed the lump in his throat as he smiled and waved back.

 


	5. A Clash Of Perspectives

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Muggles can’t steal magic. Magic is an inherited power, passed down through the generations by natural conception. It can’t be stolen, forcibly extracted from, or inserted into a living organism.”

The best parlour at Grimmauld Place, which was used only when company came, was even darker, gloomier, and more cavernous than the living room on the ground floor, which was kept for members of the immediate family. It was in this grim room that Bellatrix Lestrange and her husband, Rodolphus, awaited the arrival of her cousin Sirius.

Sirius climbed up the stairs, passing the stuffed house elf heads – who all look more cheerful than I feel, he thought – and announced his arrival with a knock at the open door of said parlour. Father had not accompanied him upstairs, preferring to wait in the living room, and Reg had vanished into his bedroom, no doubt wanting to escape the insanity that was Bellatrix. Sirius’ forehead and hands beaded over with sweat, and his legs felt weakened. Bella was staring at him with a cold smile on her lips and a strange glint in her eye. Sirius suddenly wished he could turn and flee – and immediately cursed his Gryffindor courage for letting him down when he needed it most. He wiped his hands discreetly on his robes, pulled down his collar to accommodate his constricted airflow, squared his shoulders, and, putting on his best haughty ‘Black face,’ stepped into the room.

His cousin was standing in near the fireplace, and her husband was sitting in the window seat. The light from the window was very carefully shaded away from their faces. Sirius took in the wand held casually – to all appearances – in the woman’s hands, and the way the man’s eyes kept darting to the silver daggers mounted on the wall. They’re expecting a confrontation. He smiled grimly.

“Bella,” he said curtly. He sat down without invitation.

“Sirius,” she answered, smiling widely. It was an unsettling sight. Sirius curled his lip. “Roddy, say hello to our little cousin, won’t you.”

Rodolphus smiled weakly at Sirius, who ignored him, preferring to fix his attention entirely on Bella instead.

“Father said you want to speak to me. Why?” He did not say that, after his conversation with Uncle Alphard, he had a very good idea why.

“You see, Siri,” Bella began, sitting down in one of the leather armchairs and settling her dark skirts, “I’ve got a little plan you might be interested in.”

Sirius raised his eyebrow, waiting.

“These recent times have not been good for us Purebloods. Our world has been inundated with Halfbloods and Mudbloods – filthy, disgusting creatures – and we must put a stop to it at once.”

Inwardly, Sirius’ stomach was already knotting. Outwardly, he looked supremely unimpressed.

“We?” he asked.

“The Pureblood families, of course!” Bella said impatiently. “Our Lord, who is descended of lineage most noble and pure, the family of Salazar Slytherin himself” – her eyes darkened with lust, the pupils blown wide – “has stepped up to lead this great cause. He is the leader of our organisation: the Death Eaters.”

“And what does that have to do with me?”

“We want you to join us, of course, Sirius! The Black blood that runs through your veins lends itself superbly to such a situation. We shall, under the guidance of our glorious Lord, conquer the primitive and ineffectual Mudbloods and restore the Purebloods to their rightful position!”

“What is this rightful position you are talking about?”

Bella opened her mouth, but Rodolphus anticipated her reply and spoke first. “All the ranks, positions and opportunities that are rightfully ours are slowly being taken over by Mudbloods. The Wizengamot, the Ministry, even Hogwarts is polluted with unclean blood.”

“I thought the Muggleborns who hold those positions got them through their talent and hard work,” Sirius said mildly. Bella and Rodolphus both looked outraged. A vein throbbed in Bella’s temple, and her fingers visibly tightened around her wand.

“Talent? Hard work? We are speaking of Mudbloods! They HAVE no talent or hard work!” Bella had half risen out of her seat in anger.

“Then how did they end up in such high ranking posts, my dear cousin?”

“They are thieves! They stole that which is ours by right of birth!” Bella was on her feet now, eyes shooting sparks.

“Stole our birth right? You’ll be telling me next that they stole our magic as well!”

“They probably have,” Bella said spitefully. “Scum that they are!”

Suddenly feeling extremely annoyed, Sirius stood up and strode to the window. Although Grimmauld Place was bathed in muggle-repellent charms and wards, the occupants of the house could see outside if they looked out of the windows on the upper floors. The summer sun was shining warmly down on the street below. Muggles were going about their business; to the shops, to the bus stop, children were playing in the square of grass directly outside the house.  A Labrador was licking ice cream off a little girl’s chin. Though no sound carried upwards, their laughter was evident on their faces.

Sirius turned back to the others. “Rubbish,” he said briskly.

“What?”

“Muggles can’t steal magic. Magic is an inherited power, passed down through the generations by natural conception. It can’t be stolen, forcibly extracted from, or inserted into a living organism.”

The two Death Eaters looked surprised at this revelation. Bella was clearly struggling to find an explanation, and Rodolphus stared gormlessly at Sirius.

“It’s one of the fundamental laws of magic,” Sirius continued. “You’d know that too, if you’d paid attention in Charms rather than mooning after your beloved Volde-”

“DO NOT SAY HIS NAME!” Bella shrieked, spittle flying from her mouth. Her grey eyes bulged, popping forward beyond their heavy lids, making her look quite deranged. Her wand rose and stayed pointed at Sirius’ throat.

Sirius eyed the wand warily, but he wasn’t scared yet. He knew Bella would have to go through with the entire proposition before trying anything, she would have promised her Lord to recruit Sirius.

“You still haven’t told me all the details of your little plan yet, Bella. Rodolphus, would you do the honours?” Sirius asked politely. Rodolphus shook his head, looking discombobulated, and looked to Bella for instruction. Sirius smirked. He was enjoying himself.

“Well – er,” began Rodolphus, when he realised that no help was forthcoming from his wife, who still had her wand trained on Sirius, “we want you to join the Death Eaters. You’ll be helping us er – cleanse our society of-”

“Shut up, Roddy. Let me explain,” Bella snapped, interrupting her husband.

She looked at Sirius. “We work to the Dark Lord’s instruction, ridding our society of Mudbloods, Halfbreeds and other such – unworthy creatures. We will ensure that finally, only those of noble birth are left, for we alone are worthy.”

She smiled unpleasantly, eyes shining, and Sirius felt the fine hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

“We will regain what is ours by blood and birth, we shall subjugate those of lesser blood, we shall eliminate those scum, those filth, those lesser beings unworthy to lick the blackening off our shoes; the centaurs, the vampires, the werewolves, and the Halfbloods – oh yes, even the Halfbloods,” – Sirius’ stomach twisted at the word ‘werewolf’, and he wished that he had not eaten so much dinner.

Bella was continuing, her voice soft, yet laden with darkness and power. “Our Lord has promised us this. Oh yes, a glorious age is coming for us, and for this cause, we need all the old families to rally together, to fight as one, for what is ours.”

She paused for breath. She was in her element now, Sirius noted with sick fascination, her eyes lit with some euphoria that came from deep within, kindled by the Lord of whom she spoke with such reverence.

“The Dark Lord is looking for recruits among the young. People with power and strong magical ability, those that realise the importance of preserving magical blood and heritage, those who understand the importance of wizarding purity over muggle heritage, those brought up in the traditions of Slytherin, in the traditions of our wizarding race, the heirs and denizens of noble houses, those who have much to offer his new order.”

“He requires,” she thrust her wand even further forward, “those such as you.”

“He wouldn’t want me then.” Sirius tried to sound flippant, but his throat had gone dry. He tried to discreetly moisten his lips. “I am a Gryffindor, after all. I consort with Muggleborns and Halfbr- Halfbloods,” he amended quickly. “The very people he resents.”

“Your sorting was an – unfortunate – circumstance. The Dark Lord is merciful,” she said, her voice almost a caress, lingering on the syllables of the name. “He would, no doubt, be willing to forgive that… discrepancy, should you enter into his service.”

“You mean,” Sirius said coldly, “he’ll be willing to overlook fuck-all as long he gets the run of the Black family fortune to fund his little campaigns.” Thank you, Uncle Alphard.

Bella slashed her wand. It was so quick that Sirius did not see it coming. He felt as though a red hot poker had passed through his abdomen, and bent over, gasping.

Bella stepped closer, her faces inches from his. Her eyes burned bright with mad passion.

“You do not,” she hissed, “speak of the Dark Lord in that way.”

Sirius pressed his hand to the front of his robes. They came away crimson. He straightened up, carefully smoothing his face of any expression.

He stuck out his hand, blood shining on his fingers, towards Bella. “Here,” he said, “have a good look at your idea of pure blood. Now think of all the muggles you’ve killed, Bella – oh yes, I know you have,” he said, seeing Rodolphus make a sudden movement towards him. “And think of the way they bled, the way their blood ran down in streams, when you maimed them.”

He took in a deep breath and continued, still mindful of the wand at his neck. “And now compare that with this” – he flexed his blood-slicked fingers – “does it look different from muggle blood?”

Bella was staring, eyes still burning. Rodolphus had drawn his wand, but was rooted to the spot.

“Tell me,” Sirius said, his anger snowballing, “is it any different? Is it redder? Does my purity and worth make it any darker or richer than muggle blood?”

He stepped forward, thrusting aside Bella’s arm with quick swipe. He brought his hand up to her nose. “Does it smell any different? Sweeter perhaps, or perfumed? Isn’t that what you are insinuating, Cousin?

He reached out, and gripped her wrist, leaving it stained. “Does it feel any different to the blood of the Muggleborns and Halfbloods you killed, which taints every inch of your skin, Bellatrix?”

Her eyes were wide with shock. For once, she looked more afraid that angry. Sirius bared his teeth and let out a growl reminiscent of Padfoot. His own pupils were dilated, heat coursing up his body, every nerve resonating with rage.

“So what do you say, Cousin? Should I join you and kill innocent people who are guilty of no greater crime than not having magical parents? Or not possessing magic or all? Or have been burdened with diseases or conditions that are beyond their control, just because you are afraid?”

He had crossed a line.

“I AM NOT AFRAID!” Bellatrix bellowed.

Her wand rose, even as he sought his own.

“CRUCIO!”

Sirius was on fire. He could not hear himself screaming, but knew he must be, each nerve-ending suspended in the fine-drawn agony of a thousand steel blades wrought in flames. He twitched and jerked, a puppet suspended on an invisible string.

Bellatrix was enjoying this. He could feel it in every new wave of pain that crashed over his body, even as his mind scrambled to distance itself from the physical pain.

“You do not mock the Dark Lord’s purpose,” Bella hissed. “You do not mock me.”

Her eyes were wide and red.

At the back of his pain-hazed mind, a thread of conscious began to emerge, and Sirius clung on to it for dear life. No pain in your mind. She can hurt your body but she can’t break your mind. You don’t hurt. She’s wrong. She’s wrong. Your soul is intact.

The pain dimmed slightly. Strike back. Find your wand. His fingers scrabbled desperately in his robe pockets.

Bella was beginning to realise that the curse was losing its effect on him. She doubled her efforts, and Sirius felt his thread of consciousness fray. Rodolphus had come to his senses and was circling him now, wand raised, eyes dark and hungry, like a tiger watching its prey.

Aha. His fingers closed around his wand. In doing so, they brushed against the mokeskin pouch he always kept in his pocket, and he felt the hard outline of the parcel Uncle Alphard had given him press against his hand. A warm tingle ran up his arm from the spot his palm touched the box, followed immediately by a cooling sensation.

The edge of fire receded from his body, leaving a strange numbness behind. The cooling stream had reached his mind now; it was sharper, more focused. Beads of magic travelled down his arms, congregated at his fingertips. He squeezed his fingers. Stop. Magic burst from the tip of his wand in a shower of brilliant sparks.

Bella howled in agony, and Sirius fell with a thump.

He opened his eyes warily. The odour of singed flesh and cloth rankled in the air; Bella was clutching her right arm with her left, and her sleeves were smoking.

Sirius rose to feet. His right leg wobbled beneath him, the pain returning when he put his weight on it. The fingers of his left hand were twitching. He looked at Bella, who had recovered sufficiently to have her wand pointed at him again.

“I will not join you,” Sirius said quietly, looking her in the eyes. “I do not slaughter innocents.”

He saw a figure move forward suddenly, out of the corner of his eye. It was Rodolphus.

“AVADA-”

 Sirius ducked out the way, quicker than lightning, and thrust his wand in Rodolphus’ direction.

“STUPEFY!”

Rodolphus crumpled.

Bella ignored the fallen body of her husband, and stared at Sirius, eyes burning. She slashed her wand. There was a loud crack, and the bones in his left arm snapped. Sirius cried out, then, before Bella could follow through with a killing curse, reached out with his good arm, grabbed her wand, and lobbed it into the fire. She shrieked and pounced, but he evaded her, and stumbled towards the door.

Upon reaching the door, he looked back. His eyes glinted, and his lips twitched upwards in a crooked grin.

“Goodbye, Cousin,” he said. “Tell Voldemort toodle-oo from me.”

 

***

****

Sirius cursed as he hobbled up the single flight of stairs to his room, wincing with every step. Upon reaching his bed, he flopped down wearily, closed his eyes and let his mind drift. He took stock of his injuries; in addition to his hurt and twitchy legs he now had a broken arm, several bruises all over his skin, and the roof of his mouth and the back of his throat tasted unpleasantly rancid, as though coated in blood. He sighed, wanting nothing more than to sleep, and never wake up. But no, there are more important things to do.

He went over to his wardrobe, flung open the door – wincing when the bludger injury on his good arm twinged – and threw most of his clothes into a pile on the floor. Then he open his school trunk and began to toss out the layer of three years' worth of rubbish - broken quills, fudge flies wrappers and empty potion vials amongst others - that coated the bottom.

There was a soft knock at the door, and small figure with black hair and thin glasses sidled in. “Sirius, what – what are you doing?” Regulus asked in surprise.

“What does look like?” Sirius answered, tossing pyjamas into the trunk. “I’m leaving.”

Regulus blinked. “But – but why?”

“I can’t stay here anymore.”

“I heard – I heard loud noises from downstairs. What did they – what did Bella say to you?”

“The usual gaff. Voldy wants to rid the world of everybody except Purebloods, come join our noble cause, kiss the boots of my master, blablablah.”

“You refused.” There was an underlying note of pride in Reg’s voice. Sirius caught the message: You were always brave.

“I did.” Sirius rifled through the drawers of his desk, and set all his textbooks in piles on the floor.

Reg leaned forward suddenly, eyes sharp, looking intently at Sirius’ arm, where the sleeve of his robe had ridden up several inches. “I think,” he said quietly, “the real question is, what did they do to you.”

Sirius turned away. He ignored the question in favour of packing An Advanced Guide to Potionmaking and Secrets of Runology, and tossing The Dream Oracle into the rubbish bin.

Regulus said nothing. He merely raised an eyebrow, waiting. Sirius could not see him, but he did not have to – he knew exactly how Reg was sitting, straight backed, arms crossed, mulish expression on his face.

The silence grew heavy.

Finally, Sirius conceded defeat and turned around. He’d never been able to say no to his brother for long.

“Bellatrix Crucioed me,” he said.

Reg’s eyes widened. “No,” he said. “She – she wouldn’t.”

“Wouldn’t she, though?”

Shakily, Regulus reached out a hand to Sirius’ arm, and pushed back his sleeve. The skin was red and raw, minutely blistered in some places, as though a flame had danced along its edge. In addition, there were rashes on the wrist, as the heavy dress robes he wore were very scratchy.

Reg drew in a sharp breath. He skated his wand lightly over the skin, murmuring under his breath. The redness faded slightly, but there was no reduction in either the blisters or the pain.

“It’s not working,” Reg sighed, frustrated. He frowned. “Won’t you try?”

Sirius tapped his wand against his wrist, trying out different spells to those Reg had used.

“Videlicidio!” Nothing.

“Pergurio maxima!” Still nothing.

 He tried one last time, concentrating with all his might. “Leminimo quassatura!” The rashes vanished, but the blisters remained.

Sirius sighed and threw down his wand. He felt drained, exhausted to his very soul. That little bit of healing magic had drawn upon the last of his magical reserves, and now he was depleted to the very core.

“I’ll try again later,” he mumbled. Dragging himself to his feet with an effort, he continued to pile books, clothes and Quidditch equipment into his trunk.

“I know she Crucioed you, Sirius, but do you really have to leave?” Reg pleaded. “Can’t you tell Mother-”

Sirius cut his brother off. “Mother won’t do a damn thing about it, and you know it. Probably help Bella too, by finishing me off herself,” he added bitterly.

“Father then – he will do something about it, I know he will!”

Father will,” Sirius agreed, “but it won’t be enough to stop Bella or Rodolphus from trying again. They’ve really got it in for me now. And so have I – for them.”

“Won’t you tell Father at all?”

“Oh, I will.” Sirius smiled grimly. “But I believe he won’t do more than reprimand Bella for harshness.” He turned, and locked eyes with his brother. “You were there at dinner that day – when he told me he expects me to agree to Bella’s proposition. You heard what he said, didn’t you – the consequences for disobedience will be unpleasant.”

Reg ran his tongue over his teeth. “You think he’ll still expect you to go through with the proposition, even after Bella tortured you?”

“He will, Reg; I’m sure of it.”

“But – but if he sees how badly Bella has injured you-”

“Reggie,” Sirius said, cutting his brother off gently, “how many times have I been hurt here – by Mother, or Kreacher, or even Father himself – and when has he really done anything beyond ordering Kreacher to give me a potion for the pain or a salve to remove the bruising – so that people can’t see,” he added.

“And the other thing,” Sirius continued, dropping the broom servicing kit he was holding and looking directly at Reg, “Father has made it very clear that he wants me to join this – this cause. Even if he forbids Bella to touch me again, he can – and will find another way for me to join them. More than three quarters of our family are Death Eaters already; it will be easy enough for him to try to sic me on to one of them.”

Regulus scowled, but there was no reply he could make. He sat back down on the bed and glared moodily around the room while Sirius went back to sorting through his clothes. He carefully folded and packed his few t-shirts and jeans, two oxfords and a pair of slacks and hastily squashed his balled-up socks between his pyjama shirts. He then scrunched up all his sets of dress robes and regulation black robes with great deliberation, and hurled them into the laundry basket, from which they promptly vanished.

“Those are your school robes!” Reg exclaimed reprovingly.

“They’re about two feet too short on me anyway.”

“And how do you think you’re going to afford new ones once you leave?”

“I’ve got a bit of pocket money on me still.” It was a half-truth. Sirius did have some money with him; enough perhaps to buy a few of the textbooks required for next year, but certainly not sufficient to buy the several pairs of summer and winter school uniforms that he would need. If he couldn’t scrounge up the money somehow – well, he’d just have to go naked.

Hastily removing that thought from his mind, Sirius turned to his younger brother.

“You know Reggie,” he said seriously, focusing his grey eyes on the other pair so like his own, “once I’m gone, you’ll be the heir.”

“I know.”

“You ready for it, then?”

“I’ll do my best for our family.”

“Spoken like a true Black,” Sirius said lightly.

Regulus scowled suddenly. “I’m not a Gryffindor like you, you know,” he said. Rather bitterly, Sirius thought. “I can’t be all – all brave and stubborn and defiant like you.”

“You think only Gryffindors can be brave, Reg?”

“I think only Gryffindors can be stubborn to the point of stupidity.”

“So standing up for what you believe in is stupidity, hey?”

“It is, when you get injured doing it.”

“Some things are worth it.”

“I doubt anything is worth the trouble of getting yourself half killed every time you open your mouth.”

“So self preservation is your forte, then. It isn’t mine.”

“Self preserving I maybe, mule headed I am not.”

“Alas, woe is me. Who am I but a mule headed Gryffindor? Oh, what a doom laden fate lies before me.”

Regulus glared at his brother, eyes cold and steely. “You won’t have any sort of fate if you don’t learn to keep your mouth shut!”

Sirius raised his hand and hastily took a step back. “Merlin, calm down, Reg. I was just joking.”

“AND I AM TRYING TO SAVE YOUR LIFE! For Salazar’s sake, Sirius! Why can’t you understand?”

Silence fell.

Tick…tock…tick…tock…the clock above the fireplace marked the passing seconds while the two brothers stared each other down, identical grey gazes locked together.

Suddenly, Sirius sagged, the burst of adrenaline leaving his body in a rush, leaving him colder and in more pain than before. The fingers of his left arm began to twitch again, and his right leg gave way beneath him, so that he collapsed onto his bed.

“I understand better than you think,” he said quietly. “Bella tortured me, but Rodolphus tried to kill me. He used the Avada Kedavra. If I hadn’t moved aside, I’d have died.”

Regulus’ nostrils flared. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”

Sirius shrugged.

“You almost died, and you still think keeping your thoughts to yourself isn’t worth it?” Reg blew out his breath in vexation.

Sirius merely shook his head. He did not tell his brother that this was not the first he’d had a near death experience voicing his views and he knew it was far from being the last. Instead, he tried a different tack.

“You will be next, Reg. They’ll ask you to join, too.”

“I know.”

“Will you? Will you join the Death Eaters?”

“They don’t recruit people until they turn sixteen – and until they finish their OWLS.”

“Your time for that isn’t far away, Reg. When it comes, what will you do?”

Reg paused, words quivering on the tip of his tongue. His eyes darted around the room, before fixing themselves once more on Sirius.

“Will you join Voldemort, Regulus?” Sirius persisted. His stomach was fluttering now.

Regulus remained silent.

Sirius’ heart sank rapidly. Nausea rose up in his throat. “So you will, then,” he said, disappointedly.

Regulus looked away, unable to meet his brother’s eyes.

“So you believe it, then? You believe all that Merlinforsaken bilge they spew about the right order of things and Purebloods taking precedence and weeding out Muggleborns and Halfbloods and killing muggles?” Sirius snorted in disgust.

“I – it – it’s not like that, Sirius…”

“Oh no? It isn’t? Then tell me, my brother, how is it?”

Regulus was sweating now, fat droplets making their way down his neck and collecting in a puddle at the collar of his robes, dripping off the end of the silver clasp that held the two pieces of his collar together. It looked too tight, as though it was about to suffocate him; his breathing was laboured. Sirius stared at it in sick fascination, anger unfurling in his stomach all the while.

“I told you before,” Regulus tried, “I have to do what’s best for our family.”

“Are you so sure that joining an army of murderers is what’s best for our family?”

“I’m sure they aren’t as bad as all that, Sirius. And – and I want to make Mother and Father proud, Sirius. I do love them, you know.”

Sirius blinked. That stung. So did you, once upon a time. Before you realised they were utter pricks. Even so, maybe he still did love them, a little bit, deep down. Maybe that was why every slap and jibe still hurt so much. Or when they show affection to Reg and not to you. The only way to gain their affection – if not their love – was to be obedient, to follow all their rules and take forward the traditions and name of the Blacks, something Sirius had stopped doing a very long time ago.

Sirius sighed, feeling very tired. The anger from minutes ago had disappeared. “What do you think about Voldemort? What do you think about the Death Eaters and their ideas? Really, I mean, what you yourself think about it, not what Mother or Bella or anyone else told you to think.”

Reg bit down on his lip, thinking. When he spoke, his voice was measured, certain. “I don’t agree with some of their methods. But I think their ideas may have some merit.”

“You think muggles should die, then.”

“No, I don’t. I don’t like the way they execute their ideas, I told you that. But I do think we – the Pureblood community is in danger. We must do something to protect ourselves.”

“Muggles aren’t a threat to us, Reg.”

“They could be,” his brother answered stubbornly.

“We were always taught that muggles were weak, inferior, beneath our notice. I’m surprised you think of them in any other way.”

“Contrary to what you think of me, I do have a mind of my own, Sirius. I can think for myself.”

“I never meant the opposite,” Sirius assured his brother softly. “I’m just trying to figure out what you think about this whole blood purity debate.”

“We’re a small community. They outnumber us by a very large ratio. The Statute of Secrecy doesn’t do much to protect us either. I don’t – like the others do – think that they have dirty blood, but if it comes down to the wire, to us or them, I do know, every time, I choose us.”

“And Muggleborns and Halfbloods?”

“Us and them,” Regulus repeated.

“Remus is a Halfblood. I thought you liked him. You’d kill him too, then?”

“I don’t want to kill anybody!” Regulus snapped. He closed his eyes and sighed wearily. “I do like Remus. He’s always kind to me, even though I’m a Slytherin – not like the other Gryffindor prefects,” he added pointedly.

Sirius did not ask the question he wanted to. He knew his brother’s answer. He stood up, and limped across the room to the posters stuck on the walls near the window and above the mantelpiece. There were posters of muggle motorcycles – he’d always wanted one, and muggle girls in bathing costumes, and among them, one of McKinnon as well, taken from behind a Flutterby bush when she was bathing down at the lake with her friends the previous year.

“I don’t blame you for refusing.” Regulus’ voice was hesitant, and Sirius turned to find his brother twisting his hands and looking out of the window. “Gryffindors stay true to their principles anyway. I suppose I can understand that.” He smiled wryly. “I just wish you had foot-in-mouth disease less often. It’d save you a lot of pain.”

Sirius gave his brother an answering smile, though a tentative one. “I can live with that, I guess.” He joined Reg at the window. “I didn’t tell you this before,” he said slowly, “but the Sorting Hat also asked me if I wanted Slytherin – or Hufflepuff.”

Reg’s mouth dropped. He burst into snorts of laughter. “Huff – heehee – Hufflepuff?” He gasped between breaths. “Unimaginable!”

“Hey you, stop it.” Sirius grinned and elbowed Reg. “It said I had the staunch loyalty of a well beloved dog. It also asked if I wanted to follow family traditions and go to Slytherin. Its first recommendation was Gryffindor though, so I stuck with that.”

Reg nodded thoughtfully. He seemed to be on the verge of speaking, but at the last moment, he shook his head and turned away. They both cocked their heads as faint voices reached their ears.

“Looks like Father has discovered Bella’s transgressions,” Sirius said casually. “I’d better be off soon, in that case.”

“Where will you go?”

“To the Potters.” The words came easily; they were his family.

Sirius ripped off his cumbersome dress robes, getting a small bite from the silver serpent on the cufflink in the process – “be careful of your arm, dear,” the mirror called out – and dumped them in the laundry basket. He shrank his broomstick, stuffed it into his trunk and charmed it shut. He looked round the room for his owl, Evadne, but then remembered she was off delivering a letter to Remus. She would probably go straight to the Potters, he knew. She was a smart owl.

“Right – a little addition to the room décor to remember me by would be fitting, don’t you think?” Sirius asked cheerfully.

“What are you going to do?” Reg looked alarmed.

“Oh, nothing too awful. Just a little transfiguration and a Permanent Sticking charm.” He waved his wand, and crimson Gryffindor banners appeared on the dark panelled walls. He tapped each one, and then the posters with his wand; they glowed a light blue as the sticking charm took effect.

“All done,” he said, stepping back. “Come along, Reg, time to go.” He was almost at the door, levitated trunk floating in front of him, when Reg spoke again.

“We are your family. This is your home. Do you really want to leave?” It was a plea, one final effort.

“The Potters are my family. James is my family.”

“So that’s it. You chose James over me.”

What? “No, Reg. You’re my brother, too.” The trunk dropped, and Sirius reached out with his good arm and pulled Regulus into a hug. “You are my brother, always have been, always will be. Nothing changes that, Reg, nothing.” He buried his nose in his brother’s short, straight hair, and inhaled deeply. Regulus smelled sweet – of innocence, of naivety, but also of steel, and a faint, underlying musk of desperation.

“I was going to ask you to come with me,” Sirius whispered into his brother’s hair. “But I know you’ll say no.” Regulus shook his head mutely into his brother’s shoulder.

“I will owl you,” he said, pulling away at last. “Floo call too, if I can.” Reg reluctantly followed him to the door.

“I’ll miss you dear,” the mirror called out forlornly as the door swung shut behind the brothers ** _._**


	6. Leaving Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m pretty sure I won’t. You see Father; I take no pleasure in killing innocent people. That’s a nasty thing to do, and people like that always come to a sticky end. I’d rather that not happen to me.”

Father and Mother were in the entrance hall when Sirius and Regulus arrived downstairs. Bellatrix and Rodolphus were there too; the former looking murderous, the latter disgruntled. Father looked displeased, but not surprised when the trunk landed beside Sirius with a thump.

“You have made up your mind, I see,” he said.

“I have,” Sirius replied simply.

“You will regret it one day, boy.”

“I’m pretty sure I won’t. You see Father; I take no pleasure in killing innocent people. That’s a nasty thing to do, and people like that always come to a sticky end. I’d rather that not happen to me.”

Bellatrix opened her mouth to speak, looking furious, but Sirius silenced her with a flick of his wand. “Don’t even start,” he told her. “Did these two tell you about trying to kill me, Father?”

“Indeed,” Father replied, eyeing the Lestranges coldly. “But that matter has already been dealt with.”

“Not well enough.”

“That's not for you to decide," Mother snarled. "Your father warned you, did he not, about the consequences of refusing your cousin's proposition?"

"I believe he did," Sirius agreed pleasantly. "But the right of refusal is also mine, as it was made to me, and not to you."

Father shot Sirius a glare, and then looked at Bellatrix and Rodolphus. "Please wait in the drawing room. I will join you shortly to continue our discussion."

Once they left, Mother unleashed her unrestrained wrath upon Sirius. "Idiot boy!" She shrieked, slapping him soundly across the face. "You have brought dishonour on our family! You have been given this glorious opportunity to serve a most noble cause and you have the gumption to refuse?"

Sirius staggered back from the blow, losing his footing as his right leg crumpled underneath him. Reg gasped and hurried forward to help him, but was stopped by Mother, who thrust a hand into his chest and forced him back. Father just watched.

"I knew you were a worthless whelp the moment you were born," she spat venomously. "And then when you went and got yourself sorted into Gryffindor with all the Mudbloods and blood traitors – well, it is a wonder we have not been murdered in our beds already."

Sirius got to his feet, wincing. “I also wonder the same thing quite often,” he agreed, biting his lips to keep a gasp of pain from escaping. “But as I said, I really don’t like to kill innocent people – not that you’d be likely to call yourself truly innocent, would you, Mother?”

Father flicked his wand and Sirius felt the impression of a smack land across his back. This time, he could not hold back a gasp.

“Have a care how you speak to your Mother, boy,” Father said. There was a rough edge to his usually smooth tones, and his eyes were underlined with purple smudges.

“If you leave now, you will get nothing,” Father cautioned. “You will be disinherited; you will be stripped of your heirship of the House of Black and you will lose your position as a beneficiary in your Mother’s Will, and in mine. Are you sure you want that, Sirius?”

“Better to be penniless and honourable than wealthy and dishonourable.”

Mother let out a screech of rage. “What do you know about honour, you filthy little blood-traitor? Shame of my flesh, to think that I have spawned such vermin! No matter, you will be-”

“I know a fucking lot more about honour than you do,” he told her.

Mother spluttered, his potty mouth effectively ending her rant.

“ _Scourgify_ ,” Father said coolly, and Sirius gagged as bitter soapsuds filled his mouth. “You will not use such filthy language as long as you are in my house.”

“Which won’t be very long, thankfully,” Sirius coughed, spitting out suds onto the floorboards. He retched and tried to keep from hurling, for the mixture of soap and blood at the back of throat was not a pleasant taste.

“You have nowhere to go,” said Mother, suddenly finding her voice again, as Sirius moved towards the fireplace, dragging his trunk behind him. “There will be nobody willing in to take the disgraced tatterdemalion castoff of the Blacks!” She eyed him with distaste, lips curled, glance lingering on the ends of his hair; no amount of scrubbing or household spells had managed to rid it of the blue tinge which was the aftereffect of the spell Remus had cast during their mock fight a few weeks ago. Sirius felt a sudden rush of pride for his friend fill his chest. _Remus maybe a Halfblood, but he can do better magic than the lot of them put together._

Sirius did not deign to answer her; instead he reached for the pot of Floo powder on the shelf above the fireplace.

 “All right! Leave! Go! You are no son of mine!”

Mother, seeing that her efforts to detain him were futile, slashed her wand through the air. A trail of murky, muddy brown magic shout out and whirled in a cloud above their heads.

Immediately, an iron grill slammed down in front of the fireplace, shooting sparks that scorched Sirius’ fingers when he touched it. The air inside the room suddenly expanded, becoming weighty, pressing down his shoulders, his head, against his face, making it difficult to breathe. His mind was quickly clouding, but he still felt the crackle of electricity as the dark magic pulled at his spine, at his fingertips. There was a gasp from the corner, and he knew Reg could feel it too. His parents gave no sign of perceiving it – but darkness was so ingrained in their very bones that they would not be upset by an excess of it.

Wordlessly, Sirius whirled his trunk around and made for the front door. He levitated it down the steps and looked back. His eyes met Regulus’ over his parents’ shoulders, and briefly, he nodded.

“Where will you go?” Mother’s voice rose a final time.

Sirius smiled. “I’m going Home,” he said simply.

 

*******

 

The minute the doors slammed shut behind Sirius; Father turned and went towards the drawing room, no doubt to continue his discussion with Bella and Rodolphus. Mother followed, still quivering with rage. Regulus, feeling as though a centaur had kicked him in the chest, trailed her at a safe distance. He knew what she would do, now.

Sure enough, she went up to the landing where the Black family tree tapestry hung. Regulus looked on as she ignited her wand, and held it to the tiny round picture of Sirius on the canvas. It glowed steadily for a moment, then turned to ash and scattered to dust on the dark wooden floor. Mother mumbled under her breath, and turned to find Regulus watching her. She came up to him and patted him clumsily on the cheek.

“My good son,” she murmured. “You’re a credit to the House of Black, Regulus, not like your reprobate of a brother.” There was a deranged gleam in her eye, and Regulus suddenly felt uncomfortable standing in such close proximity to her. He stepped back discreetly, but offered her a watery smile.

“That’s right,” she mumbled, going back towards the staircase. “Anyway, the House of Black only has one son now, the other doesn’t exist…” strands of dark hair had come undone from the elegant knot she wore them in, and hung around her face untidily. She heaved a sigh and spoke more to herself than to Regulus. “I’m going to my bedroom to have a rest. Have Kreacher serve your cousins tea in the drawing room when your father finishes up with them.” Her wand was still emitted murky – albeit faded – sparks, and the oppressing weight of the air disappeared along with her.

Once Mother’s footsteps on the landing above faded away, Regulus stepped in front of the tapestry and examined it closely. The tapestry itself was falling apart, despite the regular ministrations of Kreacher, and the names and pictures of seven generations of Blacks had faded, rich greens and blues turned to lacklustre chromes and greys. Only the golden threads that bound the names together retained even a hint of their original shimmer. He traced it with his finger – _Orion Black_ was joined to _Walburga Black_ with a bright row of double stitches, then down to _Regulus Black_ – and then, to the left of his name was the charred hole where his brother’s face had been, similar to a cigarette burn, but almost perfectly circular. And the ends of the hole were paper thin and curling inwards, but they were knitting, ever so slowly, together. Regulus stared, heart hammering mightily. The golden thread that lead down to Sirius’ name should have been dull and burned out, but it was shining just as brightly as the rest. _What does it mean?_ He touched the curling ends lightly. They flaked away beneath his fingers, then immediately began to reform.

He frowned. There was no Regeneration charm on the tapestry – Kreacher was always trying to coax Father into letting him place one on it – so it was some form of internal, spontaneous magic. Regulus looked up at the charred spots belonging to Andromeda and Alphard just above, but they were blackened out and dead, just as they had been all along.

“Regulus! You are needed here!”

He started at the sound of Father’s voice calling him, and hurried down stairs into the drawing room. Father, Bella and Rodolphus were seated around the fire, and Kreacher had already served them tea. Rodolphus was staring sullenly into the fire, but Father and Bella were looking pleased.

“Yes, Father?” Regulus enquired once he’d sat down and poured himself a cup of tea.

“Now that our family has been…pruned…to consist of only those to whom the honour of the Black name is of utmost importance, there are some things we wish to speak to you about.” Father smiled at him, but his stomach crawled with unease. “You are a little young to join the Death Eaters yet –”

“But rest assured, we would be delighted to have you when the time comes,” Bella broke in, beaming at Regulus. He felt his lip begin to curl and hastily pulled his face straight, giving her a brief nod.

Father ignored the interruption and continued. “However, it is never too late to begin training in the skills every Pureblood wizard should have. We shall start with Legilimency and Occlumency. The Rosier boy, I think, Bellatrix?”

Bella nodded, eager to get back into Father’s good books. “I will speak to him right away. He is a good teacher.”

“Excellent. I believe you already have a basic idea of the concepts, Regulus?”

“Yes, Father.” He took a sip of his tea and leaned forward, interest piqued.

He’d read several books about it, both from the Hogwarts and Grimmauld Place libraries. Disciplining the mind and refining the connections among thoughts was a difficult business. Severus was very keen on the subject and practised when he could – usually by trying to enter the minds of some poor unsuspecting juniors and thoroughly confusing them – and had even offered to teach him, but he didn’t much care for Severus’ methods. Learning from a proper teacher would be wonderful.

“That is good; you should be able to pick it up easily. Now, your marks in all your basic lessons are good, bolstered by your additional tutoring, but it will not be enough when you join the Death Eaters.”

Bella took over the reins from Father. “Have you heard of The Knights of Walpurgis?” She asked.

“I have heard talk of it, yes, amongst the senior Slytherins.”

“It’s an organisation that explores the finer branches of magic. There is a Junior Branch – they teach Runes, Potions, Alchemy, all the techniques and finer points, we go into everything deeply.”

“Alchemy? We do not have that as a subject at school.”

Bellatrix grinned. “You’ll learn things that old fool Dumbledore would never dream of teaching those Mudbloods.”

“And Runes and Spell-making as well?”

“Everything. They make new potions and spells from scratch, or improve upon existing ones.”

“Anything other than theory – or academic practise?”

Bella laughed, mistaking his hesitance for eagerness. “No, no, my little cousin. The Knights only concern themselves with the academics. The more enjoyable aspects are left to the Death Eaters.”

_I bet they are._

So, dear Reggie, would you be interested?”

“Yes.” Experimentation with new spells was too good an opportunity to pass up. _For now._

Father smiled, as though well pleased.

 “I will put your name forward at the next meeting, then.” Bella conjured a flyer and held it out to him. “Here are the details. Take it.”

Silently, Regulus did.


	7. Hanging By A Thread

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Only the thought of his brother-by-choice and the warm, welcoming fireplaces at the house kept him going. “James,” he murmured, tripping on a twig, and lurching forward. Find James. Find home.

The Knight Bus screeched to a halt in front of Sirius, headlights blazing. He stumbled back a few steps, but thankfully managed not to fall, then threw his hands over his eyes to screen them from the glare, and peered around them gingerly. The door was thrown open violently, and a scrawny youth with large ears leapt down from the bus and looked around cheerfully. Upon spotting Sirius, his eyes brightened.

“Welcome to the Knight Bus - Safe an’ efficient transport for the stranded witch or wizard! My name is Mitch Shunpike, an’ I will be your conductor today.”

Sirius groaned. The enthusiastic voice grated against his pounding head. “I know, I know,” he mumbled, and hauled his trunk closer to the bus. Seeing him struggling, Mitch hurried forward to help. With his luggage off his hands, Sirius managed to climb up the steps with little trouble, but once inside, found his legs were trembling too much to walk any further. He discreetly wiped the front of his t-shirt, where a spot of blood was blooming.

Mitch didn’t seem to notice, and kept up his usual bright manner. “And where does choo want to go today?”

“Ketgate, north of Thirsk, Yorkshire.”

“Hear that Ernie?” Mitch hollered cheerfully, dragging the trunk by one hand and Sirius by the other to a bed at the very front of the bus, “can we take ’im as far as Thirsk, then?”

Ernie, the driver, an elderly man with thick glasses, looked back and grunted. “The route ain’t going as far as Ketgate. Outskirts of Thirsk’s all I can do.”

“That’ll be fine,” Sirius said quietly as he settled down on the bed. Though it wasn’t fine, not really. The adrenaline rush that had carried him through the row with his parents with admirable sarcasm and minimal injuries had all but worn off completely now. The pain from his broken bones was returning in full force, as were the aftereffects of the Cruciatus curse. The only good thing – the only good _temporary_ thing, Sirius corrected himself – was that the damage to the nerve-endings in his right foot had rendered the entire leg numb. Potter Manor was in Ketgate, the tiny hamlet that stood at the foot of Heiarn Fell, five miles due north of Thirsk. He'd have to walk all that way, and he very much doubted if he could go as much as ten feet without collapsing.

"That's thirteen sickles for the fare an' a cup of 'ot chocolate," Mitch broke in, having deposited the trunk at the foot of the bed. Sirius grunted and rummaged around in his money bag for the coins.

"Spare me the chocolate," he said, handing the money to Mitch.

His insides churned at the very thought of sweets. The bus did not help either; it set off with an alarming lurch at that very moment, and Sirius turned very green. He grimaced and hastily closed his eyes, hoping that he wouldn’t sick up all over the bed. Mitch was seated on the conductor’s chair just opposite, watching him with a smile, appearing completely untroubled by Sirius’ plight.

"An’ fifteen sickles for a toofbrush in the colour of your choice,” Mitch said hopefully, when Sirius dared to open his eyes again.

Ernie made a wild turn in order to avoid an oncoming fire truck, and Sirius hung on to the bed post for dear life. “No thanks,” he mumbled, once his head stopped swimming.

“But choo can have one in any colour! We’ve got in a new stock – mauve, lilac, viridian, ochre…’aven’t we, Ern?”

“I said no!” Sirius snapped. Mitch subsided, looking hurt. “Look,” Sirius went on, a little more calmly, “I’m going to try to sleep for a bit – er, not feeling well. Wake me up when we get there, okay? Thanks.”

Sirius fell into an uneasy sleep as the Knight Bus travelled the length of Britain, offloading its usual complement of customers. The curtains shut out most of the glare from the neon signs and strobe lights whenever they ventured into muggle nightlife districts, and the candles cast a soft glow around the pillows in his bed. The gloom and the dim yellow shimmer of the candles were reminiscent of Grimmauld Place, but the oppressive weight of an atmosphere saturated with dark magic was absent here, and for that, Sirius was supremely thankful.

He awoke with a start some hours later when Ernie braked, and found himself on the floor with Mitch looming over him.

"Choo awake, then? Still got a few customers to let off before we get ter Thirsk. You’d best be careful round those parts, there’s trouble brewing wherever choo care ter look.”

“Oh?” Sirius was not particularly interested in what he supposed were village brawls, but Mitch’s next words caught his interest.

“Aye. There’s been a few attacks on Muggles round about Cornwall, Devon, Peterborough and Ripon.” Mitch lowered his voice and pointed a cautious finger towards the stairway. “Had a few unsavoury lookin’ blokes wantin’ lifts ter those parts. Ernie and me didn’t like it much, but we can’ refuse anybody needin’ transport. Bus policy, that is. Thank Merlin I live in Clapham – we ain’ had much trouble there of a few centuries.”

 _Muggle attacks?_ Sirius frowned, a thread of concern making its way to his mind despite the dull ache in his temple. Of course there was Muggle baiting and uprisings now and again throughout Britain, especially in areas that were heavily populated with magical folk, but he hadn’t heard of any so close to home. James hadn’t said anything about it in his last letter. He supposed he’d learn more once he got to Potter Manor, but until then, he’d have to keep his wits about him.

Ernie stopped at several points along the route to Yorkshire to let off more passengers – and true to Mitch’s word, three sinister young wizards with long cloaks disembarked outside a seedy pub in Peterborough – but at last, they halted on the main street leading out of Thirsk.

“Here choo are, then!” Mitch announced, taking hold of Sirius’ luggage and hauling it towards the stairway. “Be safe on your way there, and get those bruises looked at. You look in a real bad way in a good light.”

Sirius grunted his thanks and heaved the trunk down the steps.

"Aw right. We'll see choo later, then, eh? You’re the last customer tonight. Good thing too. I can' wait ter get back ter the missus an' little Stan. Bye then!"

The Knight Bus took off with a bang and Sirius was left waving limply in the middle of the deserted street. He inhaled deeply and took stock of his surroundings. Thirsk was a predominantly Muggle place – the Potter’s country seat was one of the few magical dwelling in the area – the bulk of the wizarding community was located several miles to the southeast of Ripon. Streetlights – Remus had told him they ran on something called _ecklectrickity_ – situated at intervals of twenty feet along the street cast a hazy glow onto the cobblestones. Pubs were closed for the evening, and all the people appeared to be in their homes, so at least he wouldn’t present a suspicious sight, all battered and bleeding. Muttering a prayer under his breath, he set off up the road.

The journey was long and arduous. Sirius kept on tripping on loose flagstones, and his knees threatened to give way beneath him more than once. About four miles in, the monstrous bulk of Heiarn Fell reared up before him in the distance, and he knew he was close to home.

The last mile was steeply uphill, and Sirius’ vision began to flicker as his breathing grew ever laboured. At one point, he was chased across a field by a farm dog who resented anybody intruding on his property, and only got away in the nick of time. He stumbled with a thankful sigh into the tiny village square of Ketgate, and made straight for the drinking fountain in the square.

 _Yes, that’s better,_ he thought, liberally dousing his head and shoulders with clear, cold water. It temporarily washed away the clouds of darkness that were gathering on the peripheries of his vision, and gave him a smidge of energy to labour up the final mile.

Only the thought of his brother-by-choice and the warm, welcoming fireplaces at the house kept him going. “James,” he murmured, tripping on a twig, and lurching forward. _Find James. Find home._

An eternity – which his watch informed him was actually twenty minutes – later, he felt the tingling in his fingertips and at the base of his spine, which signalled the start of the Potter property. It grew steadily stronger as he went forwards, but it was a warm, melting sort of feeling, one that whispered _home_ to his fuzzy brain, very unlike the oppressive atmosphere of Grimmauld Place.

The gate, when he reached it, was warded. Luckily, Mr. Po – Uncle Charlus had added his signature to the wards the first time he’d spent the holidays there in First year, so now it was simply a matter of providing wand identification. He tapped the sleeping stag on the coat of arms with his wand. It groaned feebly, but didn’t open, and Sirius didn’t feel the customary tug in the region of his stomach which told him that the wards recognised him. But then, his stomach was churning too much to feel anything, anyway. Frustrated, he tried again. This time, the iron stag opened one eye blearily, but the gates still didn’t open.

They finally did admit him on the third try, but not until he kicked the bottom railings angrily, and the stag opened both green eyes and whickered in remonstration.

“Shut up,” he told it irritably. “I’m sick, okay?”

Lamps sprang to life along the path as he made his way to the house, but there was no flicker of light inside the house. Several of the blinds in the upper storey windows were shut, including the ones at James’ window, Sirius noticed with a groan. He felt along the gravel at his feet for a pebble, and threw it with all his flagging strength at the window. It rattled satisfyingly, but no tousled head appeared.

“Come on Prongs,” Sirius shouted as loudly as his hoarse throat allowed.

He debated for a moment whether to rap on the front door and wake the house elves – he wasn’t sure if the senior Potters were at home, since James had mentioned a visit to his uncle’s house – but decided in the end that there was no need to disturb them. They’d make an endless fuss and try to kill him with kindness. _All I need is a bit of a rest in James’ room._ He knew that was a lie, even as he said it to himself.

Seconds ticked by, as Sirius waited for some sign of life, trying not to let his knees give way beneath him.

Suddenly, the window opened and James looked out. “Padfoot?” He didn’t sound surprised. Sirius hadn’t really expected him to. “I’ll be down in a minute.” And his head vanished.

A minute passed, and Sirius marked time by counting the number of tiny cuts he could find on his palms.

There were thundering footsteps inside the house, growing ever nearer, and suddenly the door sprang open to reveal the sleepy eyed and dishevelled figure of James.

“Padfoot.” James rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. “You’ve come.”

Sirius gave a strained smile. He was suddenly extremely tired. “I gather you weren’t expecting me?”

“Oh, I was – but not at this time of night, mate.” He sobered suddenly and peered closely at Sirius. His face twisted. “You’d better come in. I’ll call my parents.”

Sirius put out an arm and caught James’ sleeve. “No. Not yet, please, James.”

Sirius followed James, who nodded understandingly and lead him down the entrance hall towards the staircase. Sirius shook his head minutely, and sent James a pleading look. James sighed softly, looking even more concerned, turned around, and went towards the drawing room, one hand holding Sirius’ arm in guidance.

James lit the lamps with a flick of his wand, steered Sirius onto the couch, and, on taking in his appearance in good light, gasped with horror.

_“What on earth did they do to you?”_

Sirius gave a hoarse, humourless chuckle. “Funnily enough, Reg asked the same thing. Why doesn’t anybody ask what I did to them, eh?”

“Padfoot!”

Sirius dropped his light-hearted manner. “A Scourgify, a Smacking hex…a couple of Cruciatuses; the usual.”

James’ eyebrows disappeared into his fringe. “The Cruciatus was Bellatrix, wasn’t it?”

Sirius nodded and slumped back onto the couch, wincing. The wound on his front had started bleeding again. With a tremendous effort, he pushed back the dark spots that had begun to crowd in on the edge of his sight. “How did you know?” He mumbled.

James shrugged. “Seems like her style. And – are you quite sure that was all? Nothing – else, Padfoot?” James was looking very intently at Sirius, who quickly cast about for something to focus on, and found a figurine of a revolving ballerina on the mantelpiece opposite.

“No,” he said, staring the ballerina’s pink porcelain skirt. “That’s…not it, but I’d rather not say just now.” His words had begun to slur together. He tasted blood at the end of his tongue.

James’ brows crinkled, but he nodded knowingly. “All right,” he said. He glanced at the growing sheen of sweat on Sirius’ skin. “I’ll call Mum and Dad – no, Padfoot,” he said warningly, as Sirius began to protest, “you’re seriously injured, and they can heal you best.”

“No, no,” Sirius mumbled. “I just need a bit of a kip –”

“We’ll take you to St.Mungo’s, mate. You need a hospital.”

“NO! No, James, not St.Mungo’s.”

“Would you rather I let you bleed to death all over my rug?” James sounded angry now, but when Sirius looked up, all he could see was a tan and hazel blur.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sirius slurred. “‘t ain’t so bad. M’ can manage…”

“Sirius,” James said, and at the tone of his voice, Sirius’ head rose, almost against his will. “You need medical help _right now_ , and you know it. Please stop resisting.”

Sirius fell silent and returned his gaze to the blurry figurine.

“Tessie!” James called loudly, and with a soft pop, the Potters’ house elf appeared. “Get my parents, will you?” James asked, before Tessie could speak.

Tessie took one look at Sirius and disapparated wordlessly.

There was a minute’s silence, during which James kept a wary eye on Sirius, and Sirius counted the dots of silver paint on the ballerina’s shoes. One – two – three – five – ten – twelve – he couldn’t stop counting. The more he counted, the more appeared.

The room was becoming unbearably hot. Sirius undid the top button on his t-shirt with a shaking hand. The usually high, white ceiling suddenly seemed very low, and it was looming nearer with every second. There were black spots on the silver of the ballerina’s shoes. Three spots to each splash of paint – multiply that by fifteen – no, seventeen shoes, and you had –

“Padfoot?”

James’ voice was very far away.

There were footsteps rushing into the room. Sirius tried to turn his head to see who it was, but his neck wouldn’t move.

“Padfoot? Padfoot – Mum! Mum!”

Somebody was whispering – no, shouting. But it sounded like a whisper.

“Prongs?” Sirius’ throat was closing up. He tried again, harder. “Prongs?”

“Sirius? Sweetheart?” That was funny. When did James turn into a girl?

“Mum – he’s going to” –

Spots of darkness swirled on the edges of his vision. He tried to speak, but his tongue kept on getting in the way.

“Sirius – Sirius, stay with me, dear” – Someone was slapping his face, but gently. “Sirius?” –

But Sirius couldn’t.

The pain, continuously suppressed over the course of several hours, would hold back no longer. It rushed up his body, setting alight his arms, legs and torso with an internal fire that burned savagely. He cried out, but could not hear his own voice – felt nothing but the flames consuming him wholly now.

He slipped off the couch, and fainted quietly at Dorea’s feet.


	8. Our Eternal Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dad’s shoulders tensed. “He must be called away on an urgent case,” he murmured. He looked at James. “St. Mungo’s, then?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: “Our eternal home” is a line taken from the hymn “Oh God, Our Help in Ages Past” by Isaac Watts, 1674-1748.

Mum and Dad didn’t waste time trying to revive Sirius in the drawing room. They carried him up two flights of stairs to ‘Sirius’ room’ – the one they’d kept aside specially for him ever since his first stay with them. The sheets and towels had been laid out, and the lamps oiled at the beginning of the holidays, ready for Sirius’ arrival, and James had never been more grateful for that than now. He did wonder why they chose to carry him manually – surely, _Wingardium Leviosa_ was quicker, and more efficient.

Behind them, Tessie and Tubby laboured up with Sirius’ trunk. It did cross his mind – along with a stab of pity and irritation when Tubby gave a particularly laborious wheeze – that he should order them to apparate the luggage directly, but he was too distracted, trying to keep Sirius’ legs from knocking into the railings on the stairway.

“Dad,” James puffed as they took the first landing, “can’t we just levitate him upstairs? He’s so heavy, and it’ll be faster, too.”

Dad grunted. “Hold his feet steady, son.” He looked fleetingly at James. “From the looks of it, he’s been subjected to some very dark magic. He’s completely exhausted, and may not be able to handle even simple extraneous spells in his vicinity.”

“Oh.” That was all the reply he gave, but anxiety blossomed in James’ stomach with every further step he took.

Once Sirius had been deposited onto the bed, Mum and Dad went to work. Tessie and Tubby appeared with trays of potions, salves, and various other necessary medicines. There was even a tray of strange-looking metal instruments that James had last seen when his mother was still working at St.Mungo’s. The house elves seemed to know exactly what Mum and Dad wanted, and held out the right equipment at just the right moments.

“Best call in the Healer, Charlus,” Mum said. Dad flicked his wand and a silver stag erupted out of it and raced away. James usually loved to see his father conjuring up his Patronus; it was so beautiful – the epitome of strength and steadiness, the best of the qualities he associated with his father – but tonight he was too anxious to appreciate it. He paced up and down the room, from window to fireplace, eyes straying to his best friend’s inert form every few steps, hoping, praying, that the Healer would come soon.

Minutes passed, and nobody appeared. Beads of sweat began to gather on James’ forehead. Mum and Dad calmly carried on trying to heal Sirius.

Three agonising minutes later, the silver stag materialised in front of Dad, shook its head silently, and dissolved into wisps of smoke.

Dad’s shoulders tensed. “He must be called away on an urgent case,” he murmured. He looked at James. “St. Mungo’s, then?”

James shook his head. “No, Dad,” he said decisively. “Pad – Sirius didn’t want to go St. Mungo’s. I asked him, but he was very insistent. I don’t know why” – he forestalled his father’s question – “but he’s got a good reason for it.”

The wrinkles of concern on Dad’s brow didn’t fade. “All right, son; in that case we’ll respect his wishes, but I’m not too happy about it.”

Mum ran her wand very lightly up and down Sirius’ body, tapping at the pulse points, whence small red spots of light were emitted. James knew she was casting Diagnostic charms; she’d done the same many times for him when he was ill. At last, she laid her wand aside and looked up.

“From these cursory Diagnostics, I can see he’s suffered fairly extensive injuries. A broken arm, multiple cuts and lacerations to head, neck and torso, apparent nerve damage to his legs, and” – she waved a hand towards Sirius’ stomach – “a large wound here.”

James’ eyes widened. He clenched his fists, and forced his breathing under control. “What sort of wound? Can you heal it? He – he’s never been injured this badly before.”

Her attention was back on Sirius, as she carefully cut away his soiled clothing with a pair of large scissors. “I can’t tell you what sort of wound until I get this shirt off.” She glanced at James briefly. “I will do my best to heal him. You know that, James.”

“Yes, Mum.” He swallowed, trying to clear the lump that had suddenly lodged in his throat.

Dad was tending to the minor bruising on Sirius’ face and neck. James watched, breath coming slightly easier, as the cuts hissed and smoked when the dittany dripped onto them, then closed, leaving unblemished skin behind.

Tessie had been pressed into service as well, and was cutting away the tattered, sooty trousers. When she was done, Mum ran more Diagnostic charms on his legs.

“Yes,” she muttered, tracing her wand over his feet. “Nerve damage. Intensive nerve damage.” She took a smoky blue potion vial Tubby held out, and carefully placed one drop on the big toe of the right foot. It immediately turned purple.

Mum looked at Dad. “Remnants of a Cruciatus,” she said. “A powerful one.”

“Bellatrix.” James ground his teeth. “It’s an Unforgivable. Can’t you do something about it, Dad?”

“When Sirius wakes up, if he is willing to provide a statement, I can have a warrant taken out on her.” He gently sponged away the dirt on the boy’s temple. “Dorea, if you could make an imprint of the signature?”

Mum nodded, conjured a vial, and directed a stream of dark crimson magic from the purple spot on Sirius’ foot into it. “Here it is.” She handed it to Dad, who sent it zooming out of the room with a flick of his wand.

“The nerve damage cannot be healed completely by the simple remedies I’ve got here with me,” Mum said, frowning.

“Can’t you lessen it at all?”

“Yes, to some extent. The rest will have to be done by a practising Healer.”

She reached up for a salve from the tray Tessie held, and rubbed it gently on all Sirius’ toes. Some of the red, inflamed patches on the skin vanished, others lightened considerably, and James thought he saw the big toe on the right foot straighten out slightly. Mum and Dad didn’t seem to think so, however. They were still frowning, and Mum eventually picked up yet another salve from the tray.

“Isn’t it going down?” James asked, when Mum’s frown did not disappear. “It looks less inflamed.”

“The inflammation has reduced, but the appendages aren’t as responsive as I would like. The cause-effect reaction isn’t working.” She wiggled Sirius’ big toe, then released it. It hung limply afterwards, and did not move unaided, as it was supposed to do. Mum stared sadly at it, and James felt his stomach sink.

“Mum…Mum, you – you _can_ heal him, can’t you?” It was a plea.

“I can’t say anything definite, dear.”

James swallowed hard and turned away.

“Jamie, look at me,” Mum said, and the tone of her voice made James’ head snap up in spite of himself. “He got to us just in time. I am doing my very best to heal him, you know. And the minute he is stable, we will call in the Healer. With a bit of luck, he’ll pull through.”

James could not speak. He blinked back the treacherous tears forming in the corners of his eyes, and nodded.

He sank down onto a nearby chair, legs suddenly feeling lifeless, and watched his parents continue to patch up his best friend.

The only experience James had had with healing were with minor injuries owing to pranks gone wrong, or simple cuts and bruises after romping at the full moon. Remus was the most talented of them all at healing, and even he did not venture beyond moderate injuries. Any larger injuries or serious illnesses were left for Madam Pomfrey to deal with. Even so, James could see that the abdominal wound that revealed itself once Sirius blood saturated t-shirt was removed was serious. There was a thin, maroon crust of dried blood around the wound, but the centre still looked fresh. It was from this that blood had seeped, and still continued to do so, onto the skin of Sirius’ torso. Small bubbles were beginning to erupt near the crust, as though the skin was boiling. Mum poked at it gingerly with her wand. James watched as her expression changed, and grew graver than he had ever seen.

“Mum, what” – he began, but his mother interrupted him.

“Did he say that anyone had stabbed him?” She asked, brows drawn together in concern.

“No,” James answered slowly. “He did say his father used a Scourgify, and his mother slapped him about.”

“Well, someone has stabbed him,” Mother replied grimly. “With a fairly powerful weapon, too. It may have been either a physical one, or a dark curse.”

“Bellatrix might have, or Rodolphus. Isn’t there any way to make certain?”

“Not till we have some specialised equipment from St.Mungo’s,” Mum said. She looked up at Dad. “We’ll try the dittany, and then call the Healer again.”

She took the dittany from Tessie, and carefully dripped three drops onto the centre of the lesion. Usually, dittany dried out wounds, and aged them in appearance. This one turned a darker crimson and began to smoke, but still remained fresh. The boils did not disappear either; they turned a dull green and began to pulse. It was a sickening sight, and the little house elves turned quite green. Even James, who was proud of his strong stomach, turned away, feeling queasy.

Mum and Dad remained unmoved. “Time to see if Dougal is back, Charlus,” Mum told Dad.

Dad strode over to the fireplace, threw in a pinch of Floo powder. “McKinnnon! You’re wanted! Emergency!” There was a commotion at the other end. Dad stuck his head further into the fire. “Bring all your equipment. Suspected case of dark magic.”

Dad withdrew his head and stood back, shaking soot off his hair onto the carpet. “He’ll be along in two minutes.”

“ _Suspected case_ of dark magic, Dad? We _know_ it’s dark magic!”

“It’s just technical terminology, Jamie.” Dad walked over to James and laid a hand on his shoulder. James was tempted to shake it off, but didn’t. “You’ve got to calm down, son,” Dad went on quietly. “Angering yourself isn’t helping anyone. Keep yourself together, have a clear head. It’s how you can best help Sirius now.” He squeezed James’ shoulder lightly. The pressure was warm, reassuring. James anger abated – momentarily. “Understand, son?” James nodded silently, and kept his eyes on the fireplace.

Less than two minutes later, Healer Dougal McKinnon erupted out of the fireplace in a whirl of cinders and shiny medical equipage. He was young man of cheerful countenance, with untidy brown hair and bright blue eyes. He didn’t confine the shedding of soot to the rug only, as Dad had done, but happily showered the rest of the floor with ash, too.

“Hallo, hallo,” he said cheerily, looking around at them all. “Auror Potter said you’ve got an emergency?” He didn’t look at all disturbed by the prospect. James scowled.

“Yes,” James said stiffly. “My friend is gravely injured.” He pointed towards Sirius.

“Ah,” McKinnon said softly, kneeling at the foot of the bed. He took out his wand and performed Diagnostic charms; James recognised the same ones his mother had already done, alongside others that were new. He did not spend time examining the bruises that were already healed, or partially healing, instead going straight to the nerve damage on the legs.

For two minutes there was a stifling silence in the room; nobody spoke, all intent on watching the Healer, who measured out potion after potion, and spread a series of salves on various parts of the body not in the least connected to the toes. Finally, he dug out a wicked-looking pair of pliers from his pocket, inserted Sirius’ toes into them, and pulled violently. There was a resounding _crack_ , an unintelligible moan from Sirius, and then, his big toe twitched. James let out a loud breath, and sank, weak-kneed, on to a nearby chair.

McKinnon didn’t break his stride. He immediately moved onto the wound on Sirius’ stomach, which had now stopped pulsing, but, even more worryingly, was oozing pus. McKinnon hemmed and hawed and poked and prodded, and siphoned a sample of the pus into a tiny ampule. He stared at the injury for a second longer, then gave a low whistle. “This is something I haven’t seen in a long while. In fact, I haven’t seen it since we did a case study on forbidden dark spells in second year training.”

He looked up at Mum gravely. “It’s a Cleaving curse. It was outlawed by the Ministry in 1251, on account of the seven hundred Muggles that were killed by pure-blood supremacists who pretended to be Crusaders, and disguised their wands as swords.”

Mum put a hand to her mouth, looking ill, and even Dad looked none too happy. “What happens?” James asked urgently. “Sirius won’t die, will he?”

McKinnnon shook his head. “He won’t die. He’s a powerful wizard – very powerful for one so young. The curse works internally, bisecting the primary organs, working its way through the body from the point of contact. But with Sirius, something – his own power, and something else, some kind of aid, or healing catalyst, has slowed the rate of damage, so he was not long in any mortal danger. If he had not received any help within these few hours though, he’d have died – and very painfully, too.”

They stared down at Sirius, almost reverently. James could not yet grasp how close he had come to losing his friend – his brother. “Sirius has some kind of healing catalyst on him,” James said, glancing at McKinnon. “I think that’s why he didn’t want to go to St.Mungo’s; he was scared that they’d take it away from him.”

“He is the son of Orion Black, isn’t he?” McKinnon asked, cocking his head.

“Yes,” James replied, almost belligerently. “Why; you thinking of going there and dishing him a good one? Excellent idea, I’ll come with you.”

McKinnon held up a hand, looking surprised at James’ vehemence. “I was asking, because, had he been taken to St.Mungo’s, they’d have had to inform Mr. Black on the whereabouts of his son, as the boy is still a minor, and is under his guardianship. It would have boded very ill indeed for Sirius, if that was the case.”

Dad stepped forward at this. “As soon as Sirius awakes and is able to give us a statement, I will have all guardianship rights to the Blacks cancelled, and transferred to us. They have already disowned him, I understand, but this will make it a legally binding decision.” He clapped James on the shoulder. “As of now, Sirius is a part of the Potter family.”

James smiled weakly. “Thanks, Dad,” he said. “Hang on, though” – he turned to McKinnon – “how did you know he was Sirius? I don’t recall mentioning his name…”

McKinnon shrugged, now busily replacing all his equipment in his pockets. “My sister has mentioned him a couple of times.”

“Ah,” said James, and tried very hard to stop his lips from twitching.

“And one last thing.” McKinnon bent over Sirius again, and tapped the air a few inches from his heart. A thin, translucent ribbon appeared and vanished almost immediately. “I’ve put a tracker on him. His energy reserves are very low, and his magic will be quite weak for a while. He mustn’t exert himself. The tracker will let him know if he’s using up too much energy.”

McKinnon’s mouth twisted into an odd smile, and he looked at Mum. “I have a feeling he isn’t the type to listen to advice all that much, so I suppose you’ll be keeping an eye on him most of the time, Healer Potter?”

“Indeed, dear,” Mum answered. “I’m quite a tartar when I get going; I do recall you have some experience with that…during your third year…” Her tone was stern, but her eyes twinkled brightly.

“Well, I’d better be going back,” McKinnon said, making for the fireplace. “I’ve left these” – he pointed to a tray of medicines he’d put into Tubby’s hands – “instructions are on the labels, but Healer Potter will know how to administer them better than I do myself, I dare say. I’ve also put a Monitoring charm on him” – he waved a hand towards Sirius’ wrist, wherein was a paper band – “it’ll let me know when he wakes. I’ll come and have a talk with him then.”

With a smile to the Potters and a cheery wave to Tessie and Tubby, McKinnnon stepped into the fireplace, and was whisked away in a flurry of soot and flames.

“Well, that’s it, dear,” Mum said softly, putting an arm around James. “We’ll leave him to get some rest now. James, you can sleep in here if you wish, of course, but don’t stay awake too long. You need your rest, as well as he.” She gently patted his hand, kissed his cheek, and Sirius’ too, and withdrew, beckoning to her husband and the two little elves to follow.

James turned down the lamps and sat beside Sirius on the bed. The low, flickering light cast a harsh silhouette of Sirius’ pale and bandaged figure onto the blind, and James felt tears pool in his eyes. He leaned forward, and grasped Sirius’ clammy hand. “Padfoot my friend,” he whispered, low, “ _my brother_ , don’t do that to me. Don’t leave me. _Ever._ ”

 

**_***_ **

He looked down, where Bellatrix stood at the foot of his throne, agog with eagerness and anticipation – and something else he could sense in the moist, almost imperceptible impressions her short breaths left in the air before her – and fixed his eyes on her.

“Well, Bella?”

“My Lord, I have news.”

“Good news, I hope.” It was not good news, he knew that already. But it amused him, seeing Bella discomfited. She was always so forward, so eager, so sure of herself. He let a hint of frost creep into his tones. “Well, what of your quest?”

Bella stiffened slightly, interpreting the hint correctly. Her eyes darted once around the room, lingering momentarily on her husband Rodolphus and her brother-in-law Lucius, before snapping back to him, once more cool and composed.

“My Lord, the older boy – Sirius – is stubborn and misguided. I explained to him the righteous and glorious nature of our Cause, I did my best to persuade him, but he refused to join.”

“Ah.”

“He did not escape unscathed, My Lord, after daring such a slight,” Bella hastened to add. “We…duelled, and I injured him most grievously. I shall be not unsurprised if he survives the night.”

“You duelled, you say?”

“Yes, My Lord. He is but a novice. I was able to overcome him easily.”

“And yet, Bella, I observe you are now wandless.” His tone was light, amused.

Bella flushed. “Beginner’s luck,” she blustered. “Rest assured, he was well punished, My Lord. We are better off without his service, he is too wilful and headstrong; he does not know the meaning of loyalty, of dedication” –

He held up a pale hand, and Bella stopped abruptly.

“So you have failed to bring me the Black scion you promised, Bella. Well, what now? What shall we do?”

“I have good news on that score, My Lord. His brother, my cousin Regulus, has promised to join us in his stead. He is too young for the Death Eaters, but he wishes to be admitted into The Knights of Walpurgis as soon as possible.”

He considered this for a moment, eyes fixed unwaveringly on the figure in front of him. This was a development he had not anticipated. He had known the elder Black boy would refuse to join him, and had made arrangements accordingly, but this – this was a windfall. His lips curved upward. Perhaps Bella had her uses, after all.

“And this boy, Regulus,” he said, “does he have even a fraction of the talent you attribute to his brother?”

“Oh yes, My Lord,” Bella breathed. “Just as gifted, almost as powerful, academically even more so, I believe. He is well acquainted with the younger Rosier and that Snape” – here her voice gained a slight sneer – “and they both say he will be a credit to the Cause.”

She bent forward slightly, and her eyes began to shine even more, if it was possible. “And he is a Slytherin, unlike his blood traitor brother. He will know our ways, treasure what we treasure, understand our aims…he surely will be more amenable to your will” –

Once again, he held up a hand, and once again, Bella stopped abruptly. “Very well,” he said at last, and Bella released her breath. “You may initiate him into the Knights of Walpurgis.”

Ignoring Bella’s fervent thanks, he waved his hand in dismissal. In doing so, he angled his wand slightly so it was pointing at Bellatrix, and he was pleased to see her falter. She was a useful plaything now and again, but it would not do to have her grow too unafraid.


	9. Hopes And Hints

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James, who’d fallen asleep with his face in his friend’s blanket, felt someone prodding him on the arm, and, dragging himself back from the throes of an unpleasant dream, opened his eyes blearily to find Sirius looking at him.

For six days, Sirius lay unconscious, alternating between deep, peaceful slumber, and that strange half reality between sleep and wakefulness. At these times, his eyelids, or legs and arms would twitch, or he would mumble feverishly under his breath. James did not move from his room at all – and was always kept company by either one of his parents or a house elf – and was ready at the snap of a finger with water, sleeping potion or the medicine the Healer had recommended. James either sat by Sirius’ bed, or tramped in circles around the room. He spoke to nobody – except in a letter he sent to Remus and Peter the morning after Sirius arrived – Remus had replied, Peter’s letter returned, unopened – took no food except the soup his mother forced down his throat, muttered to himself, threw filthy looks out of the window in the direction of London, and generally exhibited all the signs of impending madness.

On the seventh day, Sirius awoke.

James, who’d fallen asleep with his face in his friend’s blanket, felt someone prodding him on the arm, and, dragging himself back from the throes of an unpleasant dream, opened his eyes blearily to find Sirius looking at him.

A Sirius that didn’t look like the Sirius James knew. This one was gaunt, flushed, swathed in bandages, and with great, dark circles under dull grey eyes that gave him a good likeness to the spectral figures that haunt the marshes of Britain.

For a moment, he couldn’t comprehend the sight.

“Aaargh!” He yelped and jumped back, still befuddled from sleep.

“Prongs,” the spectre croaked. “Water.”

Once his heart rate had dropped to normal levels, and he made sure he wasn’t going to be murdered by a bog-ghost, James poured a glass of water from the jug on the bedside cabinet and handed it to Sirius, who lapped it up thirstily, dog-like. The familiar motion warmed James’ heart and brought a smile to his face. He looked up and was delighted to find a matching smile on Sirius’ face, too.

When Sirius drained the glass, James refilled it, and that too, was gone in a fraction of a second. Once he’d returned the glass to James, Sirius cast his gaze sideways, then looked at him hesitantly, as if about to speak.

James nodded encouragingly and leaned in close to hear this most important disclosure.

“James,” Sirius whispered seriously – James was relieved to discover that the water had soothed his throat and his voice didn’t sound as raspy as before – “you screamed just then just like a little girl.”

Seconds passed, and all James could do was stare.

Then his face twisted in surprise and he gave an almighty snort. He raised his hand to cuff Sirius lightly on the arm, but seeing a red stain on one of the bandages there, changed his mind and stuck his tongue out instead.

“Padfoot, you idiot!” He exclaimed. “And here I thought you really were going to say something important!”

His best friend smiled, though lines of pain appeared at the end of his lips. “You have to admit, Prongs,” he said, “it’s the truth.”

“You gave me a shock, you git,” James scolded, but the smile still stayed on his face. “Waking me up like that.”

“Ah well.” Sirius chuckled and stretched gingerly, looking round the room with evident fondness. “It’s good to be home.” He sat halfway up on his pillows, and ran an experimental hand over his ribs and middle and then winced. “Who wrapped me up like a barrel?”

“Cheerful this morning, aren’t you?” James handed Sirius two potions, which he drank with a disgusted expression and a great deal of spluttering. “How do you feel, anyway?”

“Like a bus ran me over,” Sirius admitted. “Or I got hit by a Cruciatus. Same difference.”

James gave him a look, and Sirius quickly sobered. “I’m all right,” he said at last. “Better than all right, now I’m here.” He looked around again. “Where’s my wand, by the way? And my mokeskin pouch? I’ve got something in there that I want to show you.”

“In the bedside drawer. It’ll keep for a while, until you’re better. And the Healer was the one who wrapped you up like a barrel.” James answered the question he had ignored before. “He’s also the one who gave me instructions to pour that nasty stuff down your throat at half hourly intervals.”

Sirius scrunched up his nose and made a gagging motion. “Tastes like wet socks covered in mustard. No chance of letting me off it for a while?”

“How do you know what wet socks tastes like? And no, I’m certainly not letting you off. You’ve got another one coming in…exactly fifteen minutes, so prepare yourself.”

“You should know what wet socks taste like too, Prongs. Remember that time with Wilkes” –

“Oh yeah. Yeah, and the rusted crusted mustard…” James grinned reminiscently. “Those were good times.”

“Anyway,” said Sirius, gingerly moving himself to a more comfortable position among the pillows, “Thanks for your unswerving devotion in aiding my recovery. I assure you, it’s very much appreciated. Even those poisons you pretend are potions.”

James smiled. He knew that Sirius wasn’t joking.

“Where are Aunt Dorea and Uncle Charlus?” Sirius asked presently.

“They had to go out to Uncle Cyrus’. He’s been taken ill again. They’ll be back tonight. They didn’t want to go, with you still unwell, but I managed to persuade them that you’ll be all right with only me – and Tessie and Tubby – for supervisors until they get back.” James smiled wryly. “I rather think they trust Tessie and Tubby more than me, though.”

The corners of Sirius’ lips twitched, but he sobered quickly. “I’m sorry, Prongs,” he said quietly. “I’m giving you and your parents so much trouble. I wouldn’t have bothered you with this so late at night…but I didn’t know where else to go…”

“Hey now.” James gripped his best friend’s arm lightly, and stopped him speaking any further. “You did the right thing, coming here. We’re your family. We’re glad to have you here, mate. Really.” He cleared his throat and patted Sirius’ shoulder clumsily. “You belong here.”

Sirius said not a word, but just smiled sadly.

Casting his mind about for a change of subject, James glanced at his watch. “Time for the next poison,” he said lightly, and handed the cup to Sirius, who choked it down and then put a hand to his throat, evidently trying not to sick up. He sent James a revolted look, and James raised an eyebrow in return.

“The Healer put a Monitoring charm on you, mate,” James said. “He wanted us to let him know when you woke; he wants to come and have a talk with you.” He leaned over and removed a paper band from Sirius’ right wrist, and tapped it with his wand. It turned blue, and he flung it into the fire, along with a handful of Floo powder. They both watched as the band was whisked away in a whirl of emerald flames.

“There, the Healer will be along shortly. Maybe half an hour or so,” James said.

He hesitated, wondering how best to broach the subject he had in mind, then decided to take the plunge. “Before the Healer comes, Padfoot…I want to know – if you feel up to telling me – what happened?”

Sirius’ eyes flickered away from James for a second, then returned and held his gaze steadily. “I’m not ready. I don’t think I’ll ever be,” he said frankly. “But I will tell you. I owe you the truth.”

And Sirius took a deep breath, steeled himself, and told James everything.

James had gathered the gist of the incident when Sirius was being treated, but his eyes still widened in horror as Sirius’ story progressed, and often he had to stop and hand his friend a glass of water when his voice broke.

“So…that’s it,” Sirius finished. “And here I am, a runaway.” His eyes filled with tears, and his chin began to quiver, and he turned away for a moment. James pretended to notice nothing amiss, and he knew that Sirius was grateful for that.

“You did the right thing,” James told his friend, once he’d recovered himself a bit. “You had to get away. They’d have killed you, sooner or later.”

Sirius shrugged painfully. “Oh I know that – and that doesn’t worry me nearly as much as Reg.” His eyes turned haunted, the ring of grey around his pupils darkening until they almost seemed to shoot sparks, so dark that James could no longer see his own reflection in them. “I wish he’d have come, Jamie. I wish I’d done something for him. I wish I’d taken him by the throat and dragged him here.”

“It’s not your fault, Padfoot. You did all you could. It was his choice to stay behind.”

“Was it, though? I sometimes feel as if I – I’ve pushed him aside…been too caught up with my own life to see how he’s doing…”

“Nonsense, Padfoot. You were – _are_ a good brother, despite the very obvious differences between you two.”

“Sometimes I don’t understand him. He says it’s _us against them_ – as if they were any threat to us – and then when I ask, he says he doesn’t want to kill anyone. It’s like trying to piece together a never ending puzzle.” And Sirius did look suitably puzzled.

“I’m sure he’ll be gratified to hear that,” James said lightly. “Adds to his Slytherin mystique and all that.” He squeezed Sirius’ arm lightly when the boy showed no signs of cheering up. “He’s young yet, Pads. His heart’s in the right place, though, and that’s the important thing.”

Sirius sighed and looked away. His eyes brightened when they landed on his owl Evadne, who was sharing a perch with James’ own owl Marta. He snapped his fingers, and she flew down, landed on his arm and nipped his thumb affectionately. “When did she get here?” He asked James.

“About two days after you did. I was a bit worried when she got late, but she turned up looking all right.”

“Heh. Must’ve been having too much fun with Remus’ old bird. He’s been overfeeding you by the looks of it. You look fat, old girl,” he added to Evadne. She hooted indignantly and flew off again to join Marta, and he laughed.

“Do you want to do anything about your parents?” James asked, watching Sirius closely. “You’re a minor – technically – and what they did is certainly classed as child abuse.”

“I doubt we can do anything about it, Prongs,” Sirius answered. “Even if I did file action, and succeed in taking them to court, the case would just be thrown out.” He smiled bitterly. “Ye Olde Black name holds too much power. I’d love to get Reggie out of there if I could, though.”

“We can still speak to Dad about it and see what he can do. And you can definitely do something about Bellatrix and that Lestrange. Mum took an imprint of her signature off your wound, and Dad can get a warrant in for her.”

“All right,” Sirius agreed. “Uncle Charlus and the senior Aurors might be able to catch them, but if the Ministry decide to send any minions they’ll be done for.” He chuckled humourlessly. “Rodolphus is an idiot, but I pity the man who comes up against Bella.”

“You did, and hammered her, too,” James pointed out.

A brief smile flitted across Sirius’ face. “Ah, Prongs, but I’m a genius,” he said solemnly. “A man cut from a cloth no other” –

“Yes, yes, save me the soliloquy,” James broke in, amused. He looked at his watch. “Have this last potion here. Healer McKinnon should be here in a few minutes.” He chuckled under his breath when he noticed Sirius’ ears prick up at the name.

“McKinnon?” Sirius asked in a peculiar tone. His nose scrunched up. “Do I know him?”

“I don’t think so. He’s about ten years older than us – would’ve left Hogwarts before we got there. He was Mum’s apprentice the final year before she retired from St. Mungo’s.”

“Ah. The name is…er – a bit familiar.”

“Of course, genius. Remember Marlene? In our year? She’s a McKinnon.” James lips twitched when the tip of Sirius’ nose went pink.

“Oh. No relation to Marlene, is he?” Sirius’ tone was very casual, very nonchalant, and James hid a grin.

“Yeah, he is, now that you asked. He’s her older brother.”

Sirius groaned.

 

*******

****

Remus pulled his jumper snugly around himself, sniffed loudly, and peered down at the parchment spread out in front of him on the dining table. The many rooms, corridors and spaces of Hogwarts castle were drawn neatly and clearly with correct dimensions – mapped out painstakingly over many weeks by Sirius and himself, using the data gathered by Wormtail on his nightly sojourns. Piles of notes about secret passages, student demographics, mealtimes, Filch’s cleaning schedules and other bits and bobs were written in the margins in James’ tidy hand. The Hogwarts grounds and Quidditch pitch were still incomplete. That would be a task for next term.

Pushing his hair away from his eyes, Remus traced the outline of the Great Hall with his wand. It glowed faintly for a second, but nothing happened. Remus scowled, then sighed with frustration.

“What’s that you’ve got there, son?” A voice enquired, and a hand descended on his shoulder and Remus looked up to find both his father and mother looking over his shoulder interestedly.

“Just a map, Dad,” he answered, voice still laced with irritation.

“Not going well, I take it? Another of your little research projects?”

Remus groaned. “Not at all well. It’s not exactly research this time. We’re hoping to put it to – er, more practical use as well.” He grinned lopsidedly, then winced when his cheek muscles stretched and ached.

Mama and Dad both chuckled.

Dad leaned over the map, and studied it carefully. “Ah, Hogwarts. Hmm. You youngsters have some good ideas these days. I’d never have thought of drawing up a map – not that we had the same use for it that you do” –

“Dad!” Remus exclaimed, laughingly.

“You’ve even got the secret passages down, I see. We found a fair few in our day too, but not as many as you have. Oh look” – and Dad pointed to a spot on the third floor – “you’ve missed one here. There’s a passage leading to Hogsmeade behind the statue of the one-eyed witch with the hump just about here.”

“Lyall! Don’t encourage him!” Mama exclaimed, but her eyes were twinkling.

“Oh hush dear, you’re just as bad,” Dad retorted, and nudged her elbow good-naturedly.

Remus looked at his father in astonishment. He knew that both his parents had an impish sense of humour, but he’d never have guessed that Dad would know a secret way out of Hogwarts that he didn’t.

“How did you know that was there?” He asked, scribbling a note on the margin. “And where in Hogsmeade does it lead to?”

“It was in Fifth year, as I remember. We were out after curfew, and running from the wrath of Apollyon Pringle, the caretaker at that time. We desperately needed somewhere to hide, and my friend Joseph tripped over the statue. As to where in Hogsmeade it leads, that’s for you to find out, my boy. I’m not telling you how to get it open, either” – Dad forestalled Remus’ next question – “just don’t let Professor McGonagall catch you at it.”

Remus and Mama both laughed.

“Any more secret passages or chambers you’d care to tell me about, Dad?”

“Ah, no. Where’s the fun in that? You have to find out these things for yourself.”

“Please, Dad,” Remus begged, “can’t you give me at least a hint to how the witch statue opens?”

“Sorry son. But no.” Dad chuckled when Remus groaned.

“Now, I remember your Aunty Faith and I found a secret passage too, when we were in school in Cardiff,” Mama broke in. Remus and Dad both pricked up their ears.

“You never told us!” Remus exclaimed.

“It must have slipped my mind,” Mama said. “Well, it was just an empty sort of cubby hole, really, just behind the staff room. You’d get to it through a cupboard in the staff room. It had a false back – a sliding panel of sorts.” She frowned slightly, trying to recall. “There wasn’t a handle or such that you’d easily get hold of. You’d just have to scrabble about there, and hope you’d be lucky to hit on the right spot.”

“A false back – a sliding panel – does it jog your memory, Dad?” Remus looked up hopefully, but Dad just shook his head, grinning.

“Maybe…an incantation, then,” Remus mused. “A word – a spell to get it to open…but that alone wouldn’t be secure enough, if I know Hogwarts.” He drummed his fingers against the parchment. “A combination of the two might work. An incantation _and_ a moving panel – ah yes! – Yes, Dad, I see that flicker in your eyes! That’s the answer, isn’t it?”

“That’ll be telling,” said Dad, but the twinkle in his eye was unmistakeable.

Dad leaned over for another look. “What are you trying to do with this today?”

“Trying to get it to show people moving.”

“Have you entered the anthropometric data yet?”

“I did, but only for one or two people.”

“Hmm. Did you try a Tracking spell?”

 “I did,” Remus replied mournfully, “but nothing’s happening. I even tried a modified Protean charm…”

“That won’t work on monitoring human transport patterns, son.” Dad tapped the map with his finger. “The anthropometric data you entered is bound to the parchment, and changes are made on the map after tracking the movements made by the subject. Try to complete the map first, then make some separate representations of your other data. Then combine them together, and you may get your moving map.”

Remus pulled at the threadbare sleeve of his jumper, thinking. “If the information bound to the paper works late, or in this case doesn’t work at all…either data should be entered for more than just one person, or we have to find a way to coordinate the map and the human movements simultaneously.”

Dad smiled briefly, looking impressed. “Well done, Remus. You’re on the right track, there. What do you think the next step is?”

“Um…unique data has to be fed in first, but that’s too cumbersome to do by hand. A modified Duplication charm will do it. Then…a spell that senses human movement and can transmit it to the parchment instantaneously.” Remus made a face. “I haven’t discovered a spell for that yet.”

“Have you heard of the Sentient charm, son?”

Remus shook his head. The movement set off pinpricks of pain behind his eyelids, and made his nose water. He reached for his handkerchief, blew his nose loudly, and returned his attention back to his father.

“Here,” Dad said, plucking the quill out of Remus’ fingers and scribbling next to James’ notes, “try that one…and these other two spells as well. Dead useful when I was working with non-spirituous beings. Twist it a bit, and you could get something for spirits and ghosts too.”

“I’ll do that. Thanks, Dad. We need some more information about the Slytherin common room and dormitories first anyway, and the staff rooms, too. Peter could probably get it for us. He’s good at sneaking around undetected.”

“Look you, Remus,” Mama said, smoothing the knitted material over his shoulder, “I’m happy you’re having such a good time at school – truly I am – but don’t do anything dangerous, all right? Secret passages and night time gallivanting are all very well, but if anyone should find out…anyone at all” –

“It’s all right, Mama. I know how to keep safe. We take good precautions and everything,” Remus reassured his mother. “Nobody will find out anything.” _Like the fact that my friends are illegal Animagi and we all go running around the school and the village at every full moon._ His stomach twisted when he lied to his mother, and he did his best to squash the pangs of guilt. _It wasn’t really a lie,_ he rationalised. _We do take good precautions._

Mama sighed, and set down a goblet of potion and a cup of tea in front of him. “I do hope you know what you’re doing, son,” she told him. “Here’s your medicine. Are you still cold? This jumper is getting rattier than ever, you must get a new one soon.”

“Not too cold anymore, Mama.” Another lie. He was cold. He always was, just after a full moon, even in the middle of summer. But he hated to worry his parents any more than he had to, and see the wrinkles on his mother’s still-youthful face grow day by day. “I like this jumper. It’s comfortable.” He downed the potion, grimaced, and thankfully took up the cup of steaming, flavourful tea.

He looked up in time to see Mama staring at him apprehensively. Instantly wary, he held her gaze. She looked away first, then swallowed and prepared to speak.

“There’s a new treatment option we’ve looking into,” Mama said quietly. Dad, who’d been looking intently at the map thus far, looked up too.

Remus stiffened. Then he sighed and leaned his head against the chair back, letting his gaze rest on the ceiling. _No, not now. Not another one._

“We’ve been through this,” Remus said wearily. “We’ve tried so many of these options, but nothing works. We’re just wasting our money.”

“Hush you!” Mama snapped, suddenly sounding angry. Remus started in surprise, and spilled scalding tea on his jumper. “Money spent on you is _never_ wasted, Remus. Don’t ever think that. There’s nothing more important to us than your health.”

Remus turned away from his parents, and fixed his eyes on the great Cambrian Mountains visible through the dining room windows. They’d had this conversation countless times in the past twelve years, ever since he was bitten, but Mama and Dad never stopped looking for a cure, however much he told them to stop. It was pointless. He would always be a werewolf. No cutting-edge procedure or treatment could ever change that. This curse was the cross he had to bear.

When it became obvious that Remus would not say anything more, Dad spoke up. “Listen son,” he said gently, “this Healer – a doctor, they call him – Dr. Hoffman, is reported to get very successful results with almost all his patients. Your mother and I spoke to him ourselves over the fetterlone – er, telephone. He’s agreed to see you already.”

“You spoke to him without asking me first?”

“We got a chance to speak to him immediately, so we took it.” Mama’s voice was bordering on a plea. “We didn’t go behind your back, Remus.”

“How did you hear about him?” He should have stopped there, but his fast-rising ire got the better of him and he drove on recklessly. “Not another shaman from the village newspaper? I seem to remember – that last one in Durban” –

“Remus!” Mama sounded stung, and Remus felt a pang of guilt in his gut. “He cured a friend’s daughter of Leukaemia,” Mama continued softly. “She gave us his details.”

Remus kept his eyes on the mountains. “You called him doctor. Is he a Muggle then?”

“He’s a wizard. He prefers to call himself a doctor because he treats both Muggles and wizardkind for diseases of the blood.”

“Diseases of the blood?”

“Lycanthropy, dragon pox... blood infections.”

Dad paused, as if gathering up his courage. “The procedure is a bit…rough. But as I said, the results are good. And he works in the Alps – the air is very suitable for convalescence. And you and Mama both deserve a holiday.”

“I’m no stranger to pain, Dad,” Remus said quietly. “It doesn’t bother me.” He regretted his words immediately, as he saw his father’s face contract, out of the corner of his eye. Yet, he made no movement to amend his statement.

“Do we have enough funds for this?”

“Yes we do. I’ve found us some low cost accommodation. We’ll take an international Portkey there and back.”

“How long will we stay there?”

“One week, or perhaps a fortnight, depending on how the treatment goes.”

 _There is no stopping them, is there?_ He rebuked himself immediately. _They do it because they love me. I can do this simple thing and make them happy._ But still, he did not want to go.

At long last, Remus looked away from the window. “All right,” he said. “I’ll come, just this once. If it doesn’t work this time, we won’t try again.” He looked at his parents. “Promise me, no more.”

Dad swallowed. “I promise you,” he said. “This is the last time.”


	10. Conundrums And Conversations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Yes. Yes, I did,” Sirius smiled, but it was strained, and he quickly looked away. Peter hesitated, seeing Sirius’ eyes clouding over, but he was too eager for details to heed it for long.

“Moony isn’t well enough,” James said, leading Peter into the sun room on the ground floor. “He says he’s all right, and he tried to come, but his mum wouldn’t let him. I don’t blame her – he looks more drawn out than I’ve ever seen him since we became Animagi.”

“You met him? I thought you wrote to him?”

“I did, but I Flooed him this morning too, when he said he couldn’t come.”

“Oh.”

James hadn’t Flooed Peter. He’d written three days ago, saying that he’d tried to contact Peter earlier, but hadn’t been able to get through, that Sirius had been disowned by the Blacks and was henceforth a permanent fixture in the Potter family. He’d also said that Sirius had been injured rather badly, but was now recovering, and was looking forward to a visit from the Marauders, and would Peter like to come and stay for a week? He had also hinted that there was something important to be discussed. Peter had replied at once to say of course he would, but he couldn’t deny that he’d have liked to have been Flooed too.

“You didn’t Floo me,” Peter said, tapping his wand against the panel on the sun room door, to enable the wards to recognise him.

“You weren’t ill,” James pointed out, and Peter had to concur. He did wonder whether James – or Sirius, or Remus – would have Flooed _him_ if he had been ill, but then reproached himself immediately. They probably would; after all, they had visited him the few times he’d had to stay in the Hospital Wing, and James and Remus had come to see him during the summer holidays after Third year – Sirius had been away with his family, or that was what he’d said – when Peter was convalescing from a nasty case of Spattergroit. But still, there had been that one time when a Kneazle bite turned infectious…nobody had come to see him then…

“Wormtail!”

A hoarse exclamation broke Peter out of his morose musings, and he turned to find Sirius ensconced on the long, low couch near the open French windows. Sirius looked more haggard than Peter had ever seen him; there were lines across his forehead and around his eyes, he was thinner than he had been at the end of last term, and one arm was in a plaster cast. A bulky bandage peeked out from under his loose shirt when he rose to greet Peter, and he also had a pronounced limp.

“Nice to see you, mate,” Sirius beamed, and Peter couldn’t help noticing, that in spite of the pallor of his skin, there was a strange vigour in his expression. Peter didn’t quite know how to describe it; the upward tilt to Sirius’ lips when he smiled in greeting, the enthusiasm with which he pumped his friend’s hand. _Free_ was the word, he thought.

“Glad to see you got away,” Peter said, half in jest, when they had all sat down again.

“Yes. Yes, I did,” Sirius smiled, but it was strained, and he quickly looked away. Peter hesitated, seeing Sirius’ eyes clouding over, but he was too eager for details to heed it for long.

“What happened?” Peter pressed.

Sirius shrugged. “We had a fight. Father decreed that I should join old Voldyfart, Bella dearest tried to recruit me, and when I refused, she threw a hissy fit and Crucioed me into next week. I also afforded Mother the unalloyed pleasure of blasting me off the family tree. Got here as soon as I could.” His smile dropped. “Didn’t think I’d make it at one point, to be frank.”

Peter smiled sympathetically. Bellatrix did have a devil of a temper, but he did think that Sirius was exaggerating just a little bit. He was here after all, relatively whole, so it couldn’t have been as bad as all that.

“What about your injuries?” Peter continued. His eyes found the bandage around Sirius’ middle. “Did Bellatrix try to stab you or something?”

“A Cleaving curse. And some nerve damage owing to the torture. That’s about the worst of it, but Mrs. – I mean Aunt Dorea and Uncle Charlus healed me right up.”

“What’s going to happen to you then, now you’ve been disowned? How are you going to get money and all that?”

“I’ve got a little bit on me. What I’ll do when that’s over is beyond me.”

James, who had been silent until now, perked up at this and smacked Sirius gently on the arm. “I told you,” he said with mock severity, “you don’t have to worry about all that. Mum and Dad will take care of it. After all, you’re a Potter now.”

 _Ah, so that was it._ Of course, the Potters would take care of all expenses for Sirius. They were what Dad called Old Money – not in the Sacred Twenty-Eight anymore, but they’d never had any use for bloodlines anyway – with stocked vaults buried deep inside Gringotts, and this vast estate in Yorkshire, which was several centuries old. His own family could not afford to look after an extra person with such ease, even if it was his very best friend. Peter lived with his parents and two Squib sisters in a small townhouse in Cheapside. They were not hard up for funds exactly, but there was certainly not enough money to spend on anyone who wasn’t family.

“What’ll your father do, about the heirship? Will they try to get you back?”

“Hah, nice joke. I don’t think Father will, and Mother certainly won’t.” Sirius’ lip curled. “Reg will be the lucky – or unlucky – recipient.”

“You think he’ll make a good heir?”

“Oh yeah, much better than me. He’s hell bent on ‘doing his duty’, and knows all the family ropes.”

Peter doubted whether Regulus would make a better heir than Sirius. Sure, he was everything that Sirius said, but in the end, he wasn’t as talented, powerful, or charming as his older brother. And the Blacks wielded a lot of power in the Wizarding world. If it came down to a question of family loyalties, Sirius was much better off trying to regain his heirship than leeching off the Potters.

“Didn’t Regulus try to stop you from leaving?”

Sirius scowled. “He did, but Mother wasn’t having any of it.”

“Maybe he didn’t want you to stay, really,” Peter persisted. “I mean – obviously, like you said, he’s better acquainted with the ways of your family…”

“I told you, he did ask me to stay. And I – in fact, I asked him to come with me.”

“He said no, of course. With you gone, he gets all the goods –”

“Stop it, Peter!” Sirius snapped. “Reg, he isn’t like that.”

“How do you know? You’d do well to try and get back your due, without leaving it all to a younger brother.”

“I _said,_ stop it!”

 “But think of all the influence –”

“Wormtail!” At James’ strident bark, Peter fell quiet.

An awkward silence followed. James was glaring at Peter, brow furrowed. Sirius was staring outside, at the far end of the garden, where the conservatory was in full summer bloom. Peter himself twitched, twiddled his thumbs and looked at the floor. He didn’t see why Sirius and James were so angry with him. What he said to Sirius was true, after all. In the current political climate, Sirius was doing himself a disservice by distancing himself so fully from his family. Peter’s friends were short with him now, but they’d see that he was right later.

So Peter didn’t apologise, and kept his eyes fixed firmly on the carpet.

At last, in an obvious effort to change the subject, James reached out a long arm and took up a small box that lay on the table before them.

“This is what we wanted to discuss,” James said, handing the box to Peter. “Sirius’ Uncle Alphard brought it from the tropics and gave it to him, and we don’t know a blessed thing more.”

“You’re leaving the best part out, Prongs,” Sirius said, turning back to them at last. He looked at Peter. “I didn’t know what the box was at first,” he said, “it was wrapped in paper, and I kept it in my mokeskin pouch. When Bella Crucioed me, I looked for my wand in my pocket, and my fingers brushed against it.” He paused, looking awkward.

Peter glanced up from the box. “Well?” He asked. “What happened?”

Sirius looked thoughtful. “Well, that’s the thing,” he said softly, “I’m not quite sure. When my fingers touched the top of the box, a sort of cooling stream ran up my arm from the place it touched, into my head, and helped clear my mind a little.”

“A cooling stream? Like water?”

“Not exactly. It wasn’t wet, or at least, I didn’t feel any dampness. It was an internal flow of something that went along the arteries.”

“And you said it cleared your head, Padfoot?” James asked. “Did your head feel cold, too?”

“My head didn’t feel cold, but that fuzzy feeling reduced quite a bit. And I was in quite a lot of pain, and some of that went away as well. Not entirely, of course, but enough to let me get the better of Bella.”

“Could it contain a pain relieving potion?” Peter asked, tapping the lid of the box gently.

“Don’t think so,” James answered. “Those are not permeable by any external material – certainly not wood – that’s why they have to be administered directly by mouth.”

He took the box out of Peter’s hands and sniffed it. “There’s a funny smell…rather nice, kind of feminine…” his eyes glazed over, and Peter’s gaze met Sirius’, and they both chuckled.

“A smell?” Peter enquired at last, taking the box back from James and sniffing it too. At once, a very familiar scent met his nose; sweet, woody and a tad spicy. It reminded him of candles and soft lights and incense and…well –

“Oh, it’s just Sandalwood,” he said, setting the box down on the table.

Sirius and James stared. “What?” James asked, nonplussed.

“Sandalwood,” Peter repeated.

“How d’you know that?” Sirius demanded. “And what _is_ it?”

Peter frowned. “It’s a type of wood,” he said shortly. _Obviously. “_ It’s used in Divination as a stimulant to enhance the senses. Professor Imago swears by it for crystal-gazing and fire omens.”

“I can understand stimulating the senses,” James said, nose scrunched up in thought. “That’s why your mind cleared, Padfoot. But what about pain relief?” He looked expectantly at Peter.

“Don’t know if it has a direct effect on pain, but Sandalwood fumes are supposed to give the inhaler strength and peace and” – Peter closed his eyes, trying to recall Professor Imago’s exact words – “allow the user to transcend their darker desires and rise above them.”

“So technically, a buffer against dark magic.”

Sirius chuckled. “Trust Uncle Alphard to slip me something like that when I need it most, without telling me what it is.” He smiled at Peter. “Thanks for that, Wormtail. We’d have been lost without you.”

A small thrill of pride ran up Peter’s spine at his friend’s words. It wasn’t often that he had any useful academic contribution to make to a discussion. Hoping to help even further, he picked up the box again, and examined its exterior closely.

“There are some runes on it,” he said. He squinted, trying to make them out.

“They’re not ones I recognise,” James said. “Not Latin, or Hellenic.”

“They’re probably Sanskrit or Pali or whatever it is they use in those parts,” Sirius added. “Best ask Moony. He’ll probably know.”

 _Of course. Because Moony knows everything, ever._ Peter scowled, and was about to throw down the box in disgust, when a familiar symbol caught his eye.

“Here’s a swastika!” He exclaimed, pointing at the mark, which was partially obliterated under a coating of varnish. “It’s for luck,” he explained, seeing his friend’s puzzled faces. “Professor Imago hangs it over all North-facing windows.”

Sirius coughed violently to disguise a snort. Peter sent him a reproachful look. When he recovered himself sufficiently, he asked: “Anything else you know?”

“Well…here’s _jeeva_ – that’s life, and er – _athma,_ that’s… soul, I think” _–_ Peter paused as faint sounds of a commotion drifted towards them from the east wing. They all looked towards the door, but couldn’t make out the voices. Sirius’ ears and nose twitched.

The sounds died down and Peter went on. “Hang on, there’s something else too, oh – _hath pana athma_ – so…seven…life soul? That can’t be right, Professor Imago says” –

He was cut off as pounding footsteps sounded outside, and the door was wrenched open. Mr. Potter stood there, looking unusually grave.

“I have to go, boys,” Mr. Potter said. “There’s a Death Eater attack in Cokeworth.” His eyes found James and Sirius. “Stay here with your mother, and keep an eye on the wards. I’ll be back as soon as possible.”

As soon as the door shut behind Mr. Potter, Peter continued, “Professor Imago says” – only to be interrupted – again – by Sirius’ harsh, agitated tones.

“Prongs? Prongs? What’s the matter? James!?”

Peter turned to look, annoyed.

James’ face was deathly pale.

“Prongs? What’s the matter?” Sirius tried again.

James eyes flickered, then looked directly at Sirius. “Lily lives in Cokeworth.”

Save


	11. A Test Of Mettle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A pack of hounds. Salivating, panting, racing, sniffing out the weak, the vulnerable, the unworthy.

The room was cavernous and dimly lit, as was most accommodation of the Dark Lord’s preference. Rain lashed against the musty windowpanes – not the mild ever present rain; the bleak greyness of storybook England, but the sharp summer thunderstorms that break out suddenly, terrifyingly, and flood the earth with their torrential deluge. Even though he was inside, Severus could almost feel the droplets of rain, harsh and arrow-like against his skin. He shivered involuntarily, and drew his thick cloak tighter around himself.

Severus had spent a large amount of time in enclosed spaces throughout his life – the Slytherin common room under the lake, the dungeons, even his room at home – and perhaps because his presence there was enforced, a strong dislike of confinement was born in him, and grew still stronger with each year that passed.

But he had to admit that this room was different.

It was damp and dark; the only sources of light were the flickering torches on the walls that darkened the corners and lengthened the shadows, but there was power in the room. He could feel it disseminating in sleek ribbons throughout the hall, weaving in and out and around the people congregated here.  This was power – dark, concentrated magical might. It prickled at his pulse points; at his neck and wrists, and tickled at the base of his spine.

It was a strange feeling; he had expected it to be frightening – overwhelming, even, but it was not so. Certainly, butterflies fluttered gently in his stomach, but the encompassing emotion was excitement.

The figure directly on his left moved, and the sole of a leather boot scraped against his own. _Good._ Pontinius was feeling the same, then. An arm followed the shoe and bumped against his shoulder. He grunted – quietly – and nudged Pontinius back. Evan, on Severus’ right was silent, and as still as a statue, but there was alertness in every line of his body.

Cold seeped in through the cracks in the rafters, adding to the weight of the dark magic present. The torches dimmed, then flared again, threw into sharp relief the silhouettes of a number of robed figures standing in a circle in the middle of the room. _One, two, three_ , Severus counted silently. _Four, five, six_.

Two places along the line, Avery shifted. Severus’ eyes came to rest on the thirtieth figure, the last one. There were sizeable gaps in the circle, where the darkness was thinner. And for the first time that evening, a shiver that had nothing to do with his growing excitement ran down his spine.

There were thirteen missing people. Even now, as he stood here in this gloom, they were walking along the riverbank, perhaps they had reached the town square already, dividing themselves into pairs and setting off down the cobbled streets.

Like hounds on a hunt.

A pack of hounds. Salivating, panting, racing, sniffing out the weak, the vulnerable, the unworthy.

 _But no._ He had done well thus far into the evening to keep his mind from such thoughts. There was nothing to be gained by dwelling on it…

After all, what was a house, except four walls and a roof? Shelter for the flesh…it was not important.

And Lily…so bright, so smart…she could outstrip, outsmart them all. Had she listened? He had dared not say it outright, and she had been uncommonly cold towards him ever since that day by the lake. His breath caught in his chest, an icy clamshell about his ribs.

_No, do not think of it._

A snake – no, a serpent, a gigantic specimen – slid silently by their feet, scales glittering when the yellowing light landed on them, and slithered off into the gloom.

There was a disturbance in the centre of the circle.

“Well?” A languid voice inquired.

The Knight who had brought them there bowed – though not as low as a Death Eater would have done – and spoke in calm, measured tones. “The graduates of the Junior Knights, My Lord.”

“Names?”

“Leopold Avery, Augustus Mulciber, Evan Rosier, Severus Snape” – and at the sound of his name, a sudden coldness swept over him, raising goose bumps erect along his arms – “and Pontinius Nott.”

The figure on the central throne shifted. Its face was still wreathed in shadows, but a pale hand now drifted out of the darkness and lay upon the arm of the chair, as still as marble. A large, ornate ring encrusted with a single emerald glittered incongruously on one finger.

“I see,” the Dark Lord said, and this time, he sounded musing, rather than bored. “And are you, Leopold Avery, Augustus Mulciber, Evan Rosier, Severus Snape” – again, Severus forced back the goose bumps – “and Pontinius Nott, worthy of being inducted into the Death Eaters; are you deserving of that honour?”

The boys murmured and shifted; closer to one another and to the throne.

“So you _do_ think you are worthy of the honour, then?” The Dark Lord leaned forward, out of the darkness. His face, like his hand, was etched of marble. He raised an elegant eyebrow. “That remains to be seen. I do not take all and sundry, though many have offered. Oh yes.” The eyes flickered upwards. “You shall have a chance to prove yourself. After that, I shall decide.”

He looked to the Knight who still stood in front of him. “Only five? I must say, I had expected a few more…talented young wizards to be interested in swelling our ranks.”

The Knight looked up at the Dark Lord. “They have been with us for three years, My Lord, and all have passed our rigorous testing with distinction.”

A faint sneer played on those pale lips. “The cream of the crop, if you will?”

“Yes…yes, My Lord. There are many more waiting in the wings” –

The Dark Lord waved a careless hand. Recognising his dismissal, the Knight inclined his head and withdrew to take up his position in the circle, his crimson robes sweeping on the flagstones behind him.

Evan twitched beside him, and further along the row, Severus could see Avery’s eyes following something just outside his line of sight. He heard it though, a moment later, a soft hissing, a slithering; and then it appeared briefly, out of the shadows – the snake, who had wrapped herself around the arms of the throne.

The white fingers moved as the Dark Lord stroked the snake’s head idly. “The best and brightest, ranged before us today. We shall commence your assessment shortly.”

He looked to the left of the circle. “Jugson, Macnair, fetch our guests.”

The two named bowed and slipped out of the room.

Pontinius shifted slightly. The Dark Lord was watching them again. “While we await our… _guests_ ,” he said, “will you not tell us of how you have spent your time in the Knighthood?”

For a moment, there was silence. Every eye in the room was trained upon them; the coldness of their glances lanced through Severus’ coat like a foil and hit his flesh with a chilling suddenness.

Then Avery spoke up, hesitatingly. “My…My Lord, we have seen a – a remarkable rise in…in our academic accomplishments…” It was almost a question, a seeking of approval.

The Dark Lord’s lip curled, even as he inclined his head in acknowledgement of the reply. It was not a strong answer, even though it was a true one.

But academic achievement was not all that the Knights of Walpurgis had done for Severus.

As a little boy, he had devoured the books Mother kept hidden away from Father in the attic under increasingly solidifying layers of dust and Notice-Me-Not charms; tomes full of spells and charms and offensive magic centuries old. The enforced secrecy only added to the attraction. Curled up beneath greying blankets of angora wool, head resting on the window ledge, he would touch the fragile, yellowing papers that crumbled to dust under his fingers, pore over the curling script made vibrant by everlasting ink, and drink in the measures of worlds gone by as though it was a nectar.

Each new idea, every discovery and invention – the attempts of Nicholas Flamel at a philosopher’s stone, Rumbleton’s escapades with dragons in Sweden and Romania, Bibblingham’s successful experiments with bezoars – the discussions, the explanations, the additions in the margins, cross-references and notes made by scholars from decades past, were all, to him, alive. This was his chosen form of intoxication; it was his pet drug.

The Knights of Walpurgis had been a renewal of that font.

As a newcomer, he had known as much about magic as some who had joined up years earlier, and more than most. Purebloods – and particularly those from the oldest families were stiff in their relations, slow to recognise power and worth in others, but even their offspring at Hogwarts could not deny his magical prowess. The level of respect it earned him was very sweet indeed.

Footsteps echoed outside the hall, very faintly at first, growing steadily louder as they neared the door. Jugson and Macnair entered, bearing between them five figures, bound and gagged. They were held aloft, levitated, and brought to rest before the throne.

The pale hand rose in a sharp command.

With a flick of wands, the prisoners were released from their bonds. They fell to the floor an ignominious heap.

“Here are our guests,” the Dark Lord said. “They have most courteously agreed to join us on our little jaunt back from the village of Cokeworth. And I am certain” – again, the icy smile – “that they will be most willing to help our new recruits with their demonstrations. Who shall begin?”

The darkness in front of the boys thinned momentarily, and Severus began to realise that this was usual when the Dark Lord was conducting an observation. “Yes, you – Severus Snape did you say? Well, Severus Snape, will you do us the honour?”

Knees trembling, Severus stepped forward.

Of course this was a test. That was how the Dark Lord worked – the half-blood thrown in at the deep end, the purebloods witness to his mettle.

The pile on the floor writhed and twitched. Five people – three adults and two children. They lay together where they were dropped, still bound, without energy to move more than a few inches either way in token protest, much less to defend themselves. One of the adults – a lady – wore a floral print dress. It was stained with blood, seeping darkly over the poinsettias printed on her bosom and dripped down to the sash at her waist.

Severus’ stomach began to roil, but he did not dare take his eyes from the mound. The Dark Lord was watching for any sign of weakness from his new recruits, and he could not – _would not_ – be the first one to crack.

_Not people. No, not people. Only Muggles. They do not matter._

Villagers. Villagers from _Cokeworth_. The faces were all known to him, the strange familiarity of the nameless you see about you daily, but never stop to acknowledge, to smile with, to talk to. The lady was the receptionist at the post-office, and the two men… surely they were clerks at the Muggle bank on the town square. And then one of the men moved, his arm rolled out of the way, and the face of the boy underneath came into full view. 

Severus’ stomach lurched again, and he had to take a few deep breaths to stop himself from sicking up.

The little boy…of course, the son of the sweet-shop keeper. How many times had Severus as a young boy himself stared in at those Muggle sweets; the liquorice, the jellybeans, the boiled sweets and humbugs to suck on while scrawling out an essay…and the boy, clutching his father’s trousers, peeping out from behind his legs as the man chatted cheerfully with the customers he served so well.

It did not bear thinking about. And so Severus resolved not to think about it…and he certainly would not think about what lay concealed beneath the boy, not even as he turned his eyes away from the tendrils of red hair curling over the stones, and pushed out of his mind the image of pale, slender fingers outstretched, shut his eyes to the greenish glimmer that shone beneath the lids of the other pair…

Which person – victim – should he choose? Now, that was indeed a question. The woman, suffering so obviously from the gash at her breast? Not the two men – they would keep a while longer. The boy…yes, the boy.

His heart was beating a mighty tattoo against his ribcage. And exactly how should he accomplish this…yes, of course.

The best he could do for the child, an act of mercy; swift and painless.

Gripping his wand tightly, he raised his arm –

“Stop.”

Severus stood as though turned to stone _._

“Not that one, I think,” the Dark Lord said musingly. “We shall leave the little one for the last, shall we? What about” –

_Not her. Must not think. Do not think. Empty your mind. Not her. Not her._

“The girl. Yes, Severus Snape, the girl may join you in your demonstration.”

She rose in command to his wand, levitated sideways, head rolling grotesquely onto her shoulders. Red hair streamed out from the skull, and fell, waving, down her back and over her arms, dancing like flames in the draught from the windows.

The warmth disappeared from Severus’ side; Pontinius had drawn away, and was huddling closer to Mulciber and Evan. But the others in the circle were drawing closer, faces upturned and alight with eagerness as the girl rose higher and higher above his head, revolving as she went.

She was conscious.

He dared not look at her eyes. He dared not look at the Dark Lord either, instead concentrating on her skirt, flapping aimlessly around her knees, and the pale, creamy skin of her arms, unmarked, unblemished by bruises. But still the sounds of her crying cut through the rain drumming on the roof, through the steadily increasing anticipatory murmur of the crowds, and through the hammer blows of his heart; thin and drawn-out, the voice of wretchedness and misery.

“Oh go on, then, boy, give it to ’er quick!”

“Yeah, yeah, we’re waiting,” –

“Shut up, Amycus, this ’un’s a professional, ’e is, like to take ’is time and all that” –

Ribbons of energy were running through the crowd, but he could not think of it – he must not let it affect him. Background noise – that was all it was. And the spitting of the snake still writhing about near the throne – a soft, sharp, unceasing hiss, coming cleanly above the rowdy and guttural accents of the restless throng.

Her eyes were open now. Severus’ skin prickled. He lifted his wand, and then, with the final, damning words on his lips, he looked at her.  

_“Somnus sempiternia!”_

The jet of ice-blue light erupted out of his wand as rocket might burst free of its moorings and speed off into the skies.

She swirled in the air, one final, everlasting revolution, then arched backwards gracefully, arms out-flung in salutation to the darkened ceiling, then fell down; ten, twenty, twenty-five slow, agonising feet down, to land upon the floor with a sickening crunch.

The crowd erupted in thunderous applause.

But Severus could not hear the sound of his own voice making reply to their congratulations, for the girl’s eyes were fixed upon him. Hazel eyes, edged with gold. An empty, unseeing stare, and yet it riveted him, held him prisoner in a grasp of iron.

_Brown eyes. Brown. Not that – never that –_

He summoned every atom of willpower within his reach, to close his mind off to the horror before him, but it was in vain. He could not block out that blank gaze, nor the way it morphed in his own mind’s eye, the hazel lightening and turning to green – a deep, deep sparkling green, the identical likeness of that well beloved face.

Severus turned away and took place in the circle next to Pontinius. He shivered violently. It was very, very cold.

 

*******

 

Cokeworth was on fire.

The river Herne, a tributary of the Nene, ran south-west across the town, dividing in two. It was a socio-economic division as well as a geographic one; to the north of the water lay the residential quarters – dainty, comely houses, built of grey and brown stone, trellises of ivy and virginia creeper climbing up the walls, gardens with laburnums and swings and hammocks, mosaic numbers and name plates hanging above gaily painted letterboxes, hedges and fences and avenues of trees. It screamed respectability with a vengeance.

But to the south lay the factories for which the town was famed. Solid behemoths of stone and iron, proud throwbacks to the days of the Industrial Revolution which had birthed Cokeworth. The fabric mills and Stephenson engines of five centuries ago had slowly given way to the steel and iron monsters of the present, but the large storerooms were still stacked with straw, petrol and motor-oils. And beyond these factories was the town square, and then the workers’ houses – streets upon tiny narrow cobbled streets of dark, damp semi-detached huts, spreading out over the land in a spider’s web of stone and mortar, spreading out its fingers and touching the banks of the river at either end of the town.

The sky was lowering, but the rain that hammered down with unceasing zest in other parts of the island held off. A brisk north-easterly blew over the land instead, and everything within a fifty-mile radius was tinder-dry.

Ideal fodder for the flames.

It caught on quickly, and spread even quicker, a blazing, seething mass of flames, incinerating wood, clay, grass, straw, flesh, anything and everything that dared stand in its path.

The Aurors and the Hit Squad apparated right into the middle of the carnage.

Charlus Potter had been at home, peacefully enjoying a cup of tea with his wife, keeping an eye out for mischief from the boys when the call for all hands – code nine – had come. A witch, passing through the town on her way to Peterborough, had seen the flames – fiendfyre, she had claimed in her hysterical state – spreading over the factories, and had called the Ministry.

The Ministry were flabbergasted.

Cokeworth, despite a tiny magical community numbering about thirteen, was not on record in any of the departments. Not even the Underage Restrictions on Magic was monitored there.

It was an oversight that confounded thought.

Charlus apparated immediately into office, where they’d had no more than three minutes to sort out a rescue squad and an enforcement squad, and head for Cokeworth. But before he went, he took care to thoroughly and energetically blow up the Head of the Records Department. Because of their mistake, their lax attitude, there could be no count of the casualties, of the dead.

He apparated right on the bank of the river. Both squads followed right on his heels, and the force of their team apparition knocked them right over into the mud. He was just sitting up, still winded, when Frank Longbottom stood up and drew his wand out of his sheath.

“Where to, Auror Potter Sir?” Frank asked.

Frank was a smart boy. Persistent and keen. He was an invaluable asset to the Department, especially now in Moody’s absence – he was messing about with dustbins again, and Charlus really didn’t want to ask what he was doing with the loads of pawpaw and banana peel he carted home every evening – and Charlus had been happy to snap the boy up and make him his protégé.

“Wherever the fire is, you dolt,” Cavendish replied, also standing up.

Charlus smothered a chuckle at Frank’s frown. Cavendish was also a highly talented new recruit, but he had an abrasive way with him sometimes, and that often rubbed Frank up the wrong way.

“In a manner of speaking, Cavendish is right,” Charlus told Frank, now also getting to his feet, and gingerly testing out his left ankle. “We’re on the south bank – and the flames are worst on the south end, so Cavendish, Frank, De Sousa, and Taunton, you come with me there. Alabaster, Williamson, Dawlish, you take the north residential, get everybody out” –

“The Hit Squads and firefighters are already there, Sir,” a deep voice announced at his elbow.

“Ah, thank you, Kingsley.”

“Not much left for them to do, Sir. Poor Muggle firefighters are all of a dither, Can’t understand why the flames won’t go out, just keep multiplying every time they turn those hoses on to them.”

“Not fiendfyre then,” Alabaster broke in softly.

“No,” Kingsley agreed. His single earring gleamed in the light of the flames as he turned his head to stare at the further bank. “And a good job it wasn’t, too. These are self-multiplying flames, and give us enough trouble as it is. Most people got out. Those who didn’t – well, nothing we can do for them, poor devils.”

“We’ll leave the north side to them, then,” Charlus said. “Everybody to the south; stay well clear of the factories. The houses are fairly damp, but make sure everybody is out.”

“What about the Death Eaters, Sir? They are Death Eaters, aren’t they? Won’t they still be around?”

Charlus turned around. “As far as we’re aware, yes, De Sousa. But they are not the sort to hang around. They’ll be long gone by now.”

That was the way the Death Eaters worked. They started small; drunk Muggles knocked senseless on the way home from the pub, perhaps a small fire in a back garden that could be put down to negligence – things that wouldn’t be brought to the Ministry’s notice, despite his, or Moody’s, or Kingsley’s warnings to the Cabinet. And then, little by little the Death Eaters would work their way up to bigger riots and fires and crimes, and disappear from the scene, and the Ministry would be left with no clues or leads or culprits, because they hadn’t bothered with the lesser crimes that came before.

“They won’t be sticking around,” Dawlish agreed. “Back to their loony little stone cave or wherever they came from.”

“Mansion, Dawlish, mansion,” Taunton put it. “A stone cave would be beneath the likes of You-Know-Who.”

“I don’t think so, Sir,” De Sousa said.

Charlus frowned. “No?”

“No, Sir.” De Sousa had his eyes trained beyond the further bank of the river.

Charlus turned to look, too, but winced and turned away almost immediately; the flames were thickest there, and they were too bright, the incandescent orange lights shooting sparks through the straw of the roofs clustered there. _Getting old, old man._

De Sousa’s young eyes, though, didn’t appear to have any problem seeing through the mass of flames. His body was tense and his hand came up to shield his forehead. “I can make out a few of ’em – about…ten or twelve, I think. Going towards the town square. Masks and all.”

Charlus stiffened. “Are you sure, boy? Have they got” –

“I’ve got them now, too,” Frank cried. He was already striding in that direction. “Ten people…they’re dragging something…no, someone…lots of people!”

“Yes, Sir,” Alabaster added, also shielding her eyes with her hand as she squinted towards the square. “They’re levitating some of them.”

“Oh Helga’s horny pantyhose, you don’t think it could be” –

“Hostages. Yes, I’m afraid so, Kingsley.” Charlus felt the corners of his mouth turn down as he started to follow Frank. “Come along you lot, and keep your wits about you. We don’t come away until all the Muggles are safe, and we have our hands on each and every Death Eater, is that clear? Freeze their Marks if you can – we don’t want them calling in Voldemort.”

“Yes Sir.” De Sousa’s moved up to match Charlus’ step, and likewise, Cavendish moved up to match De Sousa’s. “You think they’ll give a good fight, Sir?”

“It will be tough night, my boy.”

Cavendish’s lips pulled back into a small grin. “And a long night as well, eh, Auror Potter?”

Charlus felt himself smiling back, unwillingly. “Verily.”


	12. Flames And Fears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lily whirled around so quickly her head swam, and she had to put out an arm to steady herself.

Lily groaned and dragged herself back to consciousness.

For a minute, she could do no more than lie there on the rough gravel. Her head ached abominably; bright pinpricks of stars erupted in showers like fireworks, and multi-coloured spirals of light were swirling in front of her eyes, and they brought with them a harsh, throbbing pain. If she opened her eyes it would be to sharp and immediate sickness, so she kept them tightly closed. This year, the July nights were unusually cold, but tonight the chill was absent. It had fled, been chased away by the flames that were making their way across the town, inch by inch, towards her…

Her eyes snapped open.

 _Mummy and Daddy._ Where were they? But no – they’d be safe, they would be on the other side of town by now. They’d all helped to get the neighbours out, and then her parents had taken all those who could walk towards the river; to the ferry, and then to safety on the other side.

These fires were not the work of Muggles. Of that, Lily was certain – the flames were just a smidgeon too bright, a little too red, and she’d felt the magic in them as she raced to outrun them, that same little undercurrent of electricity that surrounded her at Hogwarts, at Diagon Alley, anywhere where magic was concentrated. And she herself had not been attacked. The street she had been running down was deserted.

_Tripped again, clumsy._

Not surprising, really, but why hadn’t Tuney –

_Tuney!_

Her sister had been right behind her. Lily bit her lip. However much they fought, however much they were at odds with each other, Petunia would not leave her, hurt and alone, and depart to seek safety elsewhere. Tears started forming at the corners of Lily’s eyes –

“Psst! Lily! Lily!”

Lily whirled around so quickly her head swam, and she had to put out an arm to steady herself.

The clump of bushes at the side of the road was parted down the middle; an untidy blond head was poking out.

Lily started forward. “Tuney! What are you doing there? Where were you? I was so worried!” –

“For heaven’s sake, calm down,” Petunia said grumpily, disentangling herself gingerly from a particularly thorny branch and emerging to stand beside her sister. “You were holding my hand, can’t you remember, dumbo? And then you tripped, and went flying Pete knows where, which meant I went flying too” –

“Are you hurt?”

“No,” Petunia snapped. She grimaced, and brushed down the front of her skirt and blouse. “Blasted thorns. And this is my best top as well – never will be able to get the stains out, I suppose…”

 _Only hurt her pride, then._ Lily chuckled, then straightened her face hastily as Petunia looked around. “We’d better get moving then,” she said, when it became obvious that the scowl on her sister’s face wouldn’t fade. “Everybody round about here are safe, aren’t they? And Mummy and Daddy will be looking for us. They must be at the hospital, or at the town square; let’s go there first and see” –

“Lily.”

“The ferry must be working, unless the man’s injured too, but he can’t be” –

“Lily” –

“And even if he is, we’ll have to go round about by the road” –

“LILY!”

Lily stopped. Tuney had not moved a step. Her hand still clutched at the front of her blouse; she was looking at the town square.  “Lily,” she said slowly, “there are people at the square.”

“Of course there are, silly. All the survivors” –

“No,” interrupted Petunia, and her voice had a rough, burred quality, an undertone of anger. “There are people _fighting._ With cloaks and hoods and – and you know – _that_ kind of fighting. _Your_ kind of people…of course, I should have expected it – _where are you going?”_

“To fight, of course!” Lily shouted back over her shoulder, pulling her wand out of her pocket as she ran.

“Are you crazy?” Tuney screeched, even as she followed Lily. “You’re sixteen years old – those are adults: you’ll be killed!”

“No I won’t! What are you telling me to do? If we don’t fight, who will? They’re killing innocent people, we’ve got to stop them now!”

“They’ll bring the Police, surely” –

“The Police? The Police! By the time they get here, the town will be razed, Tuney!”

“But – but…firefighters…”

Tuney’s footsteps were weakening now, getting more distant by the second. Lily felt her brows drawing together in a scowl. Of course Tuney was falling behind; she didn’t think running was _ladylike_ enough for either of them to be indulging in – Tuney probably hadn’t run at all since she was about twelve years old – at the under-13 event in the school sportsmeet, where predictably, she’d come last. Lily suppressed a grin.

But Lily couldn’t afford to wait for her sister, she had to go on. Anyway, Petunia’s footsteps, though fading, were echoing in the same direction as Lily’s, which meant that her sister was at least following her.

Pebbles and stones alike were red-hot under her feet as she ran, scorching her toes and heels – she’d lost her shoes. It didn’t matter though; getting to the square was more important.

The town square was a shambles of grotesquely twisted steel and wire, a shattered mass of concrete and mortar, and all around the town lay a blood red pall of finely disintegrating brick powder. Lily wouldn’t have believed it possible that such havoc could be wreaked by fire alone; to bring down all the buildings fronting the square – not a single gaily columned or terraced shop front remained – to reduce them to nothing more than empty, blackened hulls, smoking ruins, and piles of rubble strewn along the pavements.

Stones crunched under her feet as she stopped behind one particularly shocking ruin. The flames had spread away from the square; the last of them were curling south-east and back again, devouring the last of the workers’ homes that still stood untouched.

They’d be gone though, and soon. Firefighters would not be able to do much – these flames were odd: they savaged everything in their path and continued merrily on, and not even the vast quantities of sand and water they met with had made the slightest difference to their body or volume.

Maybe she was too fixated on the buildings, on the houses. Human life was the first consideration – and perhaps it should be the only one. But wait…where had she heard that before? Lily’s brow wrinkled. Was it Severus who’d mentioned something in that vein to her, a few days ago?

And where was he? He could not be –

No, he could not. But if he was here, he would come, he would be fighting alongside her. Maybe he was away then – and therefore, safe.

But here was a new and immediate problem: Death Eaters.

“Who – who _are_ they?”

Petunia had arrived.

Taking her sister’s arm, Lily dragged them both behind a massive half-collapsed wall. “They’re Death Eaters,” she said quietly.

Petunia stared. “Your lot can eat death?!”

“No, silly. That’s what they call themselves. They’re dark wizards – the real deal. You shouldn’t fight them unless you can do magic. Stay here, Tuney, and keep out of sight.”

“What do you think I’m going to do? Go on a nice stroll round the square and say hello to them?” But even as she returned her acidic repartee, Tuney turned her back to Lily, and settled herself behind another wall, several yards away. Her eyes were wide and glazed with desperation, and Lily knew her sister wouldn’t move an inch from there until someone came to fetch her.

_Right._

_Mummy? Daddy? They can’t be there…oh please, no!_

Very slowly, carefully, Lily peered out from behind the wall.

Thirteen figures, cloaked and hooded, stood in a wide circle around the square, wands out and pointed at a throng gathered in the middle; a trembling, scraggly, badly frightened throng. Men, women, children – at least thirty or forty of them – some pushing against one another, others huddling together.

Mummy and Daddy were not amongst them.

The people were screaming.

They were screaming, Lily knew, because their mouths were moving: open wide, far wider than any mouth ever had a right to be, wider than any mouth ever _could_ be surely; so why had they skin not cracked, the lips not split…but they were cracking now, and splitting, renting apart as the fragile fabric of their skin tore through, blood blooming at the corners of the lips and running down the chins. They did not wipe it away.

But strangely, there was no sound. None at all, for the harsh notes were torn from their throats and carried away with the wind.

The only other conclusion was that Lily had gone deaf, and that was not a very likely conclusion, for she’d heard Petunia speaking just a few minutes ago, hadn’t she? Lily wrinkled her nose. But maybe that wasn’t the best reasoning: Lily firmed believed that Petunia’s voice, when shrill with stress, could easily pierce through the eight-foot armour of a battleship with more to spare.

Maybe she _was_ deaf after all.

A dull pain pounded its way up her arm, and Lily snatched it off the jagged piece of rock she’d been involuntarily crushing.

It was like looking through a telescope. Or a very distant focal lens. The brick dust still lay heavy on the air, unmindful of the winds that buffeted the flames back and forth in the distance.

But through that floating red haze, everything, each tiny little detail, from the mole on the left cheek of the little boy who stood at the very front of the hostage group, to the deeply recessed gouges on the arms of one of the Death Eaters who had his wand trained on the secretary from the kennel club, it all stood out with astounding clarity.

“Oy, what do you think you’re doing?”

Instinctively, Lily ducked.

A jet of red light whistled above her head, and she rolled out of reach, three, four, five feet out of range of the wall, then straightened almost immediately when neither breeze nor heat brushed against her.

The curse had fallen several feet short – but then, it had not been aimed at her. At the very front of the circle, a figure lay still on the ground, with that strange, inevitable stillness, the limp crumple in the shoulders and knees that signified that the man had moved his last, and would move no more.

Several feet above him ran an electric current, mapping the circle of masked figures; a white, pulsating twining thread of energy.

One of the Death Eaters detached themselves from the group and moved forward to stand before the dead man. He kicked out at the body with the tip of his boot. “And that’s what happens when you don’t listen to your betters,” he said coolly.

 _Well, at least you know you’re not deaf_.

And what was that smell? Surely, it wasn’t possible that any smell could carry through to where she was hidden, for the wind would have snatched it up and dashed it away within milliseconds, but still it spiralled in the air towards her, reaching her nose, pervading it almost. A strong, sickening stench, thick and feverish and rancid.

A wave of nausea began to roil in her stomach, and Lily hurriedly braced herself against the wall. She bit her lip and tasted salt.

The Death Eater was still in front of the body, but now he looked around at the other hostages. “Anybody care to join him? No?”

“What? And die like him?” Another man in the crowd called out.

The Death Eater raised his eyebrow so high it was visible above his mask. “You’re going to die anyway.” He smirked. “He had the easy way out. Filthy Muggles.”

Oddly, in the middle of all this chaos, someone was letting off fireworks. Red, green and blue, they shimmered brilliantly before her; close by, within arm’s reach.

 Lily blinked, and the coloured sparkles cleared from the screen of her vision, blurring to a faint but insistent throbbing at the back of her head. _Well, rats to concussion._

The Death Eaters were circling now, slowly and steadily, each figure moving clockwise exactly six steps every seconds – she could count the time because each second matched a beat from her heart. They did not break rank, keeping the gaps between them constant, creeping in, at a snail’s pace almost, but still moving in, unchecked and unhindered.

The circle was getting smaller, and they were getting further away from Lily. If she was going to make a move, this was the time to do it, else they would soon be out of the reach of her wand.

But what could she do?

Outnumbered thirteen to one, against fully-qualified and probably very talented duellists, her chances were slim. There was one man – he had to be a man, because he was so very large – with his back to her. She could reach out now, from the cover of this wall, and stun him where he stood. He’d fall, and that would create a diversion, giving her precious time to get away, or to make an attempt at the others.

Precious time. But how much time? Three seconds, five seconds? She wouldn’t be able to move more than five feet – at the outside limit – and then they’d be on her, they’d blow apart the wall –

_The wall._

Well, that was a possibility. The tiniest of all chances, but the chance nonetheless, and the only one that wouldn’t lead to immediate and uncomfortable suicide.

Wand out, hands now possessed of enough feeling to let her bring it up against any threat in sufficient time, Lily backed away, step by step, several paces away from the wall and took cover behind yet another empty shell.

Slowly, calmly, with infinite care, she raised her wand.

_“Confringio!”_

The wall blasted into smithereens.

Sheer power – all of the energy that Lily could muster had been thrown into the spell, and even as she dove for cover, face turned downwards on to the gravel, she knew it worked, because she felt it, the larger pieces exploding into a thousand smaller particles, raining down on them, a shower of stone and cement and concrete.

Cautiously, Lily raised her head. Her knees were burning – possibly cut quite deeply, almost certainly bleeding, but there wasn’t time to attend to it now.

Several of the Death Eaters had been thrown off balance by the sheer force of the explosion – three, possibly four, it was difficult to make out exactly how many – were lying on the ground within feet of the electric thread. A mop of blond hair stirred feebly and then flopped down; the large Death Eater directly in front of Lily had gone down too, then.

The thread crackled; still white-hot, but the pulsing was markedly less. It was close to cracking point – if she could blast another rock, surely it would break, leaving a path free for her to rush in, or for the hostages to run out –

But they were running out already now, or trying to. Person after person flung themselves at the boundary, only to be thrown back when a blast of electricity jolted through their bodies, to the accompaniment of a sibilant sizzling and again, that rancid stench…

_Another way. You need another way._

“Who sent that spell” –

“It’s a girl – there she is, catch her!”

“What the hell” –

Trained dark wizards had a record recovery time, and those who weren’t out for the count were rising very fast indeed. She had to run, to find cover from which to attack –

They converged in on her now, some had gained their feet astonishingly fast, but others were still weaving unsteadily, blinded by the cement dust that filled their eyes and clogged up their noses and mouths. She willed her legs to move, but they’d turned to iron, and were clamped down firmly on to the ground.

The figures nearest to her raised their wands, even as she brought her own to bear on them –

“OH NO YOU DON’T, BUDDY! _STUPEFY!”_

Blinding red light flashed over the group.

Lily turned, sinking to her knees as she did, scrabbling to get out of the way of the man who had suddenly appeared. His chest was heaving as though he’d run a fair distance, but still he leaped nimbly over the puddles of rubble, wand firing curses nonstop at the Death Eaters.

“Get out of the way!” He shouted at her, not even sparing her a look. “Get behind the structures!”

Lily stumbled to her feet and ran.

More figures were appearing now. The first wave came running in from downriver, running past the smouldering ruins as if they didn’t exist, wands flashing brilliant jets of light, white, blue and red at the Death Eaters. The second wave apparated in with thunderous cracks that shook the ground for miles around: the Death Eaters stumbled, some fell to their knees, but the others came on to meet this new attack.

 _Every man for himself. Abandon ship._ What an incongruous phrase – what was it doing, floating around inside her mind, when she should be fighting?

Her rescuer was back. His black hair was tousled, and large bruises blossomed all over his dark skin. “Get up,” he said, taking her by arm. “Get your wand, and if you still can fight, take some of the Muggles out of here” –

“They’re going for the Mark!” Someone shouted.

“Freeze it, then!”

“I can’t!” A female cried, almost hysterically. Her long brown hair swung round in a wild arc as she battled to reach the arms of the Death Eater she was targeting.

Lily’s rescuer’s head whipped round. “Burn it off, you idiot!” He shouted. “You’re a bloody _Auror,_ Alabaster!” He turned back to face Lily. Take ’em downstream to the hospital. Go on, then.”

Lily nodded, but hadn’t taken more than three steps towards the throng when a tall Death Eater broke loose from the fray, tore off his mask and rose up to meet her.

“Going somewhere, little girl?”

_“Stupefy!”_

He deflected it with a lazy flick of his wand, as though the spell were no more than a passing fly. His face was white and twisted; a grotesquely contorted brow and staring eyes – a mask behind the mask…and the sneer on those bloodless lips was similarly twisted also.

“Little Mudblood, aren’t you? Those features don’t come from any pureblood family I know.”

_“Diffindo!”_

She ran forward even as she cast the spell, but he aborted that too, and whirling around, almost knocking her off her feet with his momentum, slashed his wand high through the air.

She could not hear the shrieks of the surrounding Aurors, nor see the arc of purple light speeding towards her; she flung herself sideways and hit the ground with a terrific crack, but that was nothing, this was all nothing, for this was agony.

There was nothing but agony, searing through the flesh of left arm as a gale-force wind might lance through the duffels of a sailor upon the bridge of a ship during an Arctic storm; a sharp, deep, piercing pain, the stabbing ache of a hundred thousand stilettos digging right into her bones. And whiteness now, like snow – snow in July, how could this be? –

Somebody was laughing. And more purple light – _not purple, it’s mauve, silly._ And a thud, and flash of very familiar black hair – where had she seen that before?

But it didn’t matter, because now she was eating sand. Her mouth was dry and gritty and full. But it did matter, because it was very untidy black hair, dusted with snow, and more familiar black hair, sleek and long and blue-tipped…

Somebody had set off fireworks again, but inside her arms this time…and now there was too much black hair before her –

“EVANS?!”


	13. Fire!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erik is the Phantom, dumbass. That’s an established fact, so why did she have go and ask stupid questions like that?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: References to Alice in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll and Phantom of the Opera by Gaston Leroux.

Fiction was much more exciting than real life, of course, but Lily hadn’t really wanted the Phantom of the Opera to come to life. Reading about creeping stalkers with twisted faces and stressed out Counts and vast labyrinths under buildings was entirely different to actually seeing them in the flesh. Although the bright flares of lights dancing around her – glimmering palely through a blue-grey pall of darkness – certainly helped reinforce the feeling of being on a stage. And Raoul was so much better than Erik, even if Marly tried to convince her otherwise regularly…

“Who the hell is Erik?”

Erik is the Phantom, dumbass. That’s an established fact, so why did she have go and ask stupid questions like that?

“Hey! I’m not stupid!” The voice sounded remarkably injured, and very far away. That was unusual, and quite curious. Mental voices were supposed to come from within a person, after all.  

“My voice is _not_ mental, Evans! How am I supposed to know all these Muggle characters?”

She was a Muggleborn, wasn’t she? Didn’t it naturally follow that she should know all about them?

“ _I’m_ not Muggleborn, Evans. _You_ are.” The voice gave a longsuffering sigh.

The sigh was breezy and much too distant. _Curiouser and curiouser._

Her arm still hurt abominably. But this went beyond mere pain; less than torture now, the stilettos still embedded in her bones numbering mere hundreds, rather than hundreds of thousands. And why on earth did she insist on calling herself “Evans?”

“It’s your name, _Lily_. You’ve never allowed me to call you Lily, so what on earth am I supposed to” –

“Leave her be, Prongs,” a second voice, equally deep, cut across the first. Deep voices were immeasurably preferable to shrill ones; there was an ethereal, soothing quality to them that was pleasant to her ears.

The second voice paused suddenly, then sniggered. “She’s taken a bad knock to the head; thicker than a concussed troll by the looks of it” –

Trolls were seriously misunderstood creatures. But no – not trolls. Those were dragons, were they not?

“Did Hagrid tell you that?”

“Maybe you should open your eyes, Evans.”

Lily opened her eyes. It was a grave mistake: instantaneously a blunt meat chopper cleaved through the back of her head, renting it apart, effectively setting the exposed nerve endings alight with fire, coming to rest with a final thwack at the base of her neck. She groaned.

Somebody put an arm beneath her head. “Slowly there, now, careful.”

Her second attempt was much more successful. Night had fallen completely now, but still the light from the distant flames, and the sudden flickering and weaving globes of light that signified the duel in progress was too bright on her weary eyeballs. _Well, that’s what those dancing lights are, then._ By dint of great effort though, she managed to keep them open. Two faces swam into view far above her face: Potter, who was holding her up, and Black.

Potter’s hair was more dishevelled than Lily had ever seen it before – “ _thank you_ ,” said a voice, which she ignored – and Black appeared to be wearing pyjamas.

“Yes, Evans, pyjamas. It’s what normal folk wear to go to bed, you know.”

It was not bedtime yet, barely six o’clock in the evening, if she was correct.

“It’s almost eight o’clock, Evans. You ought to be able to figure that out, even if you’ve gone funny in the head – it’s fully dark, after all, as you so astutely pointed out three seconds ago.”

Lily blinked, and this time, it didn’t hurt as much. “Am I really talking out loud?”

Black smirked. “Got there all by yourself, did you?”

“Shut up, Black.”

Black chuckled. “Looks like she’s finally herself again, Prongs.”

Potter smiled, then looked down at Lily, hazel eyes shooting sparks. His brow was pale, and gathered in wrinkles. “You got in the way of a pretty bad curse, we think. We didn’t see it happening – you were already down when we arrived, but you were very lucky – it only glanced off your arm.”

The appendage in question was flaming red, and burned with an intensity that was as brilliant as its colour. “Looks like the little glance has done quite enough damage to be going on with.” The ground was hard beneath her, and something small and crumbly – pebbles, possibly – grated against her sore back with every movement she made. “Where are we? Won’t we get in the way of the fight?”

Potter was looking intently at her. “Don’t you want to be fighting?”

She scowled. “Of course I do! You do ask silly questions, don’t you?” Potter and Black obviously wanted to fight too; they wouldn’t be here otherwise. But why did they want to fight – did they think it would be fun, or did they regard it as some sort of joke? And how did they get here? Apparition was possible, but not probable – most people couldn’t manage it without difficulty until seventh year at least. Maybe a Portkey then – but how had they known that there was a duel going on, and how had they known where it was? Cokeworth wasn’t high on the list of Popular Magical Places, after all.

The Northern Lights probably did make that list though. And tonight, Cokeworth could certainly give them a run for their money. The flashes of light were growing even brighter now; brighter and more intense, the reds darkening to crimson, the greens to emerald, flashing high in the sky above their heads, only to turn to ashes and scatter in scalding showers on their shoulders and down their clothes.

Without pausing to think, she threw up her injured arm to shield her eyes.

By the time the red mists cleared from her eyes – it seemed an eternity, but it couldn’t have been more than a few seconds – Potter had his arm around her once more. “You have to take it easy for the next ten minutes at least,” he told her. “You nearly fainted again, there. The fight isn’t going to be over anytime soon; but go back too early into the fray, and you’ll be a liability, instead of an asset.”

“How long was I out?”

Potter withdrew his arm, and took her hand instead, helping her move shakily to a sitting position. “Two seconds, maybe three. You didn’t actually black out, your eyes were sort of half-open.”

“That’s creepy,” she muttered.

Potter shrugged. “Yeah well, I’ve seen worse.”

 _What does he mean?_ Lily felt the corners of her lips pulling down in a frown.

But then she had no more time to think of it, for a large, weaving, pulsating ribbon of light came down directly over them, looming larger with each second that passed. There was no time to turn away, to roll over, or gain her feet. Lily scrunched her eyes and lowered her head. The meat cleaver came down again on her neck, but this time she paid it no attention: her burning forehead met soft flesh, warm despite the chill of the night, and damp too, as though it was covered in sweat. Something came up around her – an arm, by the sound of cloth grazing cloth – but it was an insufficient protection, a puny shield, for it could do nothing –

The fireball was on them, now, surely, only an inexorable fraction of a millisecond left for the three of them to live –

The heat was tremendous; a roaring inferno. The ground shook beneath her feet, cracks appearing at the edges of her toes, and still the globe of fire came on.

And then it passed.

It passed, bouncing harmlessly in mid-air over their heads, rolling away to her left. Lily’s eyes were still pressed into soft flesh, but the fire flashed brightly enough to dispel that darkness.

“Phew. I thought it wouldn’t hold up for a moment, there.”

Black had spoken, and he was looking sombrely at Potter as Lily raised her head, once again, from the cushion of Potter’s arm.

Potter was looking at something. Lily followed his line of vision. It took a few seconds for her to make out what it was, because her eyes didn’t seem to be working properly, but at last the haze on her screen of vision cleared, and there it was: a thickening of the air right around them, less than half a foot above their heads, only visible because of the slightly distorted shimmer it gave out.

“What _is_ that thing?”

“Shield charm, Evans,” Black said. “And not a bad one, if I say so myself.”

“I’ve never seen _Protego_ cast a bubble like that before,” Lily said doubtfully.

“Ah well, it’s a little different to the weaker forms we learn at school.”

“You got it up so fast…I didn’t even think of…another quarter of a second, and we’d have all been toast.”

Black shrugged, looking embarrassed. “Practise makes perfect,” he murmured.

“Ah, but nobody can be perfect, so why practise?”

The phrase had escaped her involuntarily, but a surprised silence followed her remark. Then Potter broke out into a delighted laugh. “You devil, Lil – Evans,” he said, and his hazel eyes sparked like snapdragons as they met her own. “I’ve never heard that one before. Not bad, though.”

“It’s a Muggle saying we use,” she said. Then she blinked. “Speaking of Muggle sayings, where did the Phantom go?”

“It pains me to inform you, Evans,” Black began solemnly, but Potter cut right across him:

“This Erik is a pain in my…my bludger, Evans! There is no bloody phantom! Why do you keep insisting on blathering on” –

“Language Prongs,” Black interrupted, looking suitably shocked. “We have a lady present. Though I do have to agree with you,” he went on, “not half a toenail of this phantom chap to be seen.”

“There has to be,” Lily insisted, getting gingerly onto her knees, and knocking Potter’s supporting – and hopeful – arm away from her elbow. “I saw him. Do the Death Eaters have ghosts in their ranks? It could have been one – or maybe a person masquerading as a ghost.”

“What did he look like?” Potter asked, taking her wrist in spite of her protests, and leading her further into the shadows behind the wall. Now that the shield charm had expired, the noise of the battle filtered through, louder than before, and skies lit up with whizzing spells at regularly and rapidly increasing intervals.

“He was white…so white he might have been dead. And his face was all twisted; like a wax mask had melted all over him. That’s why I thought of the Phantom.”

“They haven’t a ghost in their side as far as I know,” Potter told her. He wasn’t looking at her, instead keeping a wary eye on the fight that was getting steadily closer. “It must have been the Death Eater who cursed you – I only caught a tiny glimpse of him, but he was extraordinary pale, as you said, and there was something wonky with his eyebrows.”

“What happened to him?”

“One of the Aurors took him out, I think,” Black said. He was not looking at her either; his gaze was fixed on the distant flames, now licking at the last of a ramshackle old staircase in the workers’ quarter. “You were on the ground, rolling around – we thought you’d had a fit, actually – and that black haired Auror was fighting the Death Eater.”

“I don’t think the Death Eater managed to kill him,” Potter said. “He looked like a crack duellist. They all seem to be, though,” he added a trifle bitterly, cocking his head in the direction of a pair of fighters revolving around a smoking ruin. “There are more Aurors than Death Eaters, but they’re barely hanging on by the looks of it.” He cast an eye over Lily, dropping his gaze to rest briefly on her injured arm. “A few inches either way, and you’d have been dead.”

“Yeah, well, thanks for reminding me.” Lily reached out her good arm, and ran her fingers over the wall not two feet in front of her. It was an old wall; the cement browned and dulled with the passage of years, crumbling under her wandering fingertips and falling into little piles of dust at her feet, with tendrils of damp moss running down its height and gathering in blackish clumps at the base, where the earth had eroded to expose its foundations. Most people would have called it ugly, Lily thought; it had that neglected, weather-beaten aura that many elderly buildings wore, but in spite of that, it had a strange beauty. How much had it seen throughout the years? Fires, floods, droughts, wars; standing there, a silent spectator to history being made, a second at a time.

And now this, its last fire. They’d probably demolish it completely when they started the renovations. Would it be glad to go, or did it wish it could see just one more day? In a way, it was a great pity.

“You know, you ramble quite a lot, Evans,” Potter said. “And very loudly, too.”

She looked up to find him looking down at her. His words had sounded very blunt, but his eyes were bright behind their thick glasses, and the smile on his lips was so pleasant that it robbed it his speech of all offence.

“Don’t let it bother you,” he continued, then nodded toward Black. “This fellow here does it all the time too. So I’m well used to it. Although you did whack me across the face when I tried to look at your arm.”

“Ah, I’m sorry.” She was, too. Black and Potter were being unexpectedly nice. It was rather disconcerting.

Potter shrugged. “Don’t mention it. It didn’t leave a mark or anything.”

“How did I end up here? Did you… er – drag me here?”

Potter’s eyes widened – whether with surprise or embarrassment Lily couldn’t tell, though she had a sneaking suspicion it was the latter – but Black broke in smoothly: “That was I. Prongs here – ah – suffered a moment of _indisposition_ as soon as we arrived.” He sidestepped quickly, avoiding Potter’s swinging arm.

Lily felt the corners of her lips twitching upwards, and narrowed her eyes to hide it. “I vaguely remember hearing a thud,” she said.

“That was it,” Black agreed cheerfully. “Prongs tripped” –

“Over the Portkey” –

“Over his own feet,” Black overrode Potter sternly. “Not your finest moment, Prongs, my man.”

Potter looked horrified.

Giggles were rising fast inside her now, birthing in her stomach and travelling up her throat with astonishing rapidity. Lily tried her best, in the few short seconds she had to supress them, but holding her breath didn’t work, and neither did squeezing the tip of her nose: the giggles rose up like bubbles on the surface of an aerated drink, and burst out in a gale of merriment that had tears escaping her eyes and shoulders shaking.

The two boys swung round to face her, but try as she might, she couldn’t stop. Soon, Black had joined in the laughter, and even Potter ventured a good-natured smile.

“I’m sorry,” Lily said at last, when she’d gained a grip on herself a few second later. “I didn’t know you were the tripping type.” _But I am,_ she added silently. She tried to bite back a groan as the pain in her arm escalated suddenly, but couldn’t. She cradled her left arm in her right, and lowered her head to hide the sudden tears pooling at the corners of her eyes.

Black began to rummage in his pockets. “I may have something to help with your arm, Evans,” he said. “And your head too.” He grunted with effort, and stuck his arm deeper into his pocket. His muscles flexed with effort beneath his short-sleeved pyjama shirt. “I… I brought it… I have to have brought it – oh _shite._ ”

“Language, Padfoot,” Potter broke in. He glared at Black over the rims of his spectacles, but his eyes gleamed with mirth. He imitated Black’s voice perfectly: “we have a _lady_ here.”

“Prongs, you tosser. This revengeful streak is most unbecoming to you. I’m sorry, Evans.” Black gave her a bleak smile. “I seem to have left it at home after all.” He shot a glance at Potter. “Let’s hope Peter hasn’t disappeared with it.”

“Probably not,” Potter returned. “He seemed a bit miffed when he left.”

“I’m a fool,” Black murmured. “Leaving it out there in broad daylight.”

“Nobody will notice it, mate.”

“A thumping great thing like that…”

“It’s a tiny box, Padfoot.”

“Stinking to high heaven” –

Potter scowled. “It’s sandalwood. It’s a _fragrance_.”

“Fragrance, hah,” Black jeered.  “Pungent, is what you mean. Take that what-d’you-call-it that girls wear – green tea – now that’s a fragrance, all right.”

“Excuse me,” Lily interrupted, and she tried to make her voice as cold as she could, but she wasn’t quite sure whether it came off properly, “ _I_ wear sandalwood perfume.” Marlene, though, would agree with Black; she was addicted to green tea perfume.

“Exactly,” Black mumbled under his breath.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Sorry, Evans. My tongue – er – slipped. Never mind, Prongs. Let Pete wallow in it all he likes.”

 _What on earth are they talking about?_ “Let Peter wallow in _what?_ ”

Potter shifted awkwardly, and peered around the edge of the wall. “It’s heating up,” he said softly. His eyeballs moved back and forth across the square, flickering shut every now and again when the glare of the fires became too intense.

“There’s a whacking great fire going on, and all you come up with is “it’s heating up?”

Potter ignored Black’s jibe and squinted into the distance. “Another couple of Death Eaters are down, but the ones that are left seem to have channelled the fury of wildcats.” He looked around at Black and grinned. “Time to rejoin the fight, methinks.” His eyes met Lily’s. “Do you think you can, now?”

Lily staggered to her feet by way of answer and scrabbled in her back pocket for her wand. The arm was still scarlet, and burned brilliant fires inside her, but it was tolerable. It had to be so, for the town needed all the defenders it could get, and she wasn’t about to let a little thing like a cursed arm stop her.

“Curses aren’t quite as minor as you may think,” Black said softly, and Lily blinked, realising she’d been talking out loud again. Black’s fingers wandered to the hem of his pyjama top. “Frankly Evans, that arm of yours needs to be at St. Mungo’s right now.”

Lily turned around and looked at Potter. “You said ten minutes,” she said accusingly. “You told me I needed ten minutes! Not St. Mungo’s!”

“Well, would you go to St. Mungo’s right now, even if you could?”

“Of course not! I have to fight!”

Potter shrugged one shoulder. “Exactly. I figured ten minutes was about the most we could keep you quiet and out of trouble.” He smiled, a troubled and weary smile, but one strangely touched with a trace of smugness. “And I was right about that, wasn’t I?”


	14. Meeting By Chance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His mouth was drying now; discreetly he ran his tongue over his lower lip. The Death Eater did not miss the tiny action; the mask slipped to a side, exposing the evil curve of a blood-red mouth.

Eyes fixed unblinkingly on his opponent’s face, James circled, as slowly as he could, three steps to the left. Scorching gravel crunched hard under his feet, sending pinpricks of pain travelling up the length of his shins and thighs, but he shook it off, and concentrated on the insane glimmer that shone out through the eye gaps in the Death Eater’s mask.

The fight was dying down around them. Merlin knew how many still, prone figures he’d stepped over, pursuing and being pursued by the last few remaining Death Eaters – he’d lost count after twenty. Of course, he could only hope they were injured, and not dead…

Carefully, taking only a split to do so, his eyes swept the horizons of the town, taking in the collapsed buildings and still-smoking ruins, glimmering eerily in the all too inadequate light from the few upstanding streetlamps. But the light gave him no glimpse of fiery hair.

His pulse, so far a slight threnody against his wand, began to pick up speed.

_She’s fine. She can hold her own._

The Death Eater’s mouth curled upwards in a wicked smile. “Looking for something, ’ickle boy?”

“No.”

“ _Someone_ , then?” The chin was pointing up too now, the mad glitter in the eyes intensifying.

James felt his own mouth twist up in reply. “Why would you care?”

“Ah, I wouldn’t want you to lose your little girlfriend. Or I wouldn’t, if she wasn’t _a Mudblood.”_

His mouth was drying now; discreetly he ran his tongue over his lower lip. The Death Eater did not miss the tiny action; the mask slipped to a side, exposing the evil curve of a blood-red mouth.

_Lipstick._

_A gentleman never hurts a lady, son._

Dad’s words – and every bit of advice his father gave him, James treasured up, and tried to use, as much as possible. That was why the female population of Slytherin regularly escaped the Marauders’ more ingenious pranks; a point of contention with Peter, who argued that it was a waste of brilliant planning, and Sirius, who maintained that even Slytherin girls deserved what was coming to them. But James’ powers of persuasion were strong, and the girls were mostly left in peace.

This was not a woman, though. This was a monster. And monsters had to be culled.

“Agreed,” came a familiar soft voice in his ear, and James started, nearly losing his grip on his wand, managing to catch it back with the tips of his fingers just in time.

“Idiot,” Sirius hissed, but the jibe was without spite, “don’t you know the first law of duelling?”

“What?” James asked out of the corner of his mouth, “don’t bloody apparate on your friend’s toes when he’s concentrating?”

“I didn’t apparate. I can’t apparate yet, in case that minor fact has escaped your attention, Prongs. And if I could, I’d aim much higher up than your toes…”

“Oh, ha ha…”

Surprisingly, the Death Eater hadn’t moved at all; she was watching them, wand held out before her, head on one side, a few straggling strands of curling black hair streaming loose from the bun on top of her head. Her cold eyes were fixed on Sirius’ face. “Siri,” she said quietly, and at the sound of her voice, that sure, creeping menace in her tones, a sudden, excruciating chill enveloped James.

“Bellatrix,” Sirius replied, just as quietly. His was pale; his cheeks drained of blood, his eyes alert, and all vestiges of the good mood he’d been in earlier had vanished. The bandage around his middle had come undone, and hung, scarlet-spotted, beneath the hem of his pyjama shirt.

Bellatrix looked down and smirked. “Not quite recovered, Siri? But then, that was a neat little spell I hit you with.”

“Neat wouldn’t be my definition,” Sirius said casually. “Rather messy when it comes to changing. McKinnon’s developed quite the vocabulary for dealing with it” – his lips twitched upwards when Bellatrix’s face contorted – “but I’m much more recovered than you’d like, aren’t I, Bellatrix?”

Snatching up her mask, Bellatrix threw it aside. The nostrils flared in the pale face. “Not anymore, you won’t be, once I’m done with you.”

James felt his muscles flexing involuntarily, and deliberately tautened his fingertips. Beside him, the heat radiating off Sirius reached a crescendo, though when he spoke, his voice was tightly controlled: “What about Rodolphus? Don’t you want to invite him to join the party, too?”

“Don’t worry,” came a gravelly voice, and thickset figure in a dark cloak strode out of the shadows, “I’m here already.”

_Merlin._

“Roddy,” Bellatrix said.

“We’ll have to finish it off soon. Not much time.” Lestrange’s mask was off too, but unlike Bellatrix, his eyes were unfocused, the pupils dilated, his gaze shifting rapidly between the boys, and the figures approaching fast in the distance.

They had to take every chance they could.

Angling his wand slightly upwards, James met Sirius’ eyes, and instantly, they dived sideways, James to the left and Sirius to the right, hitting the ground with tremendous force, as Bellatrix’s and Lestrange’s combined green jets flew over their heads.

Arms braced against the gravel, James careened out of the path of Lestrange’s stunner that followed almost immediately afterwards, and brought his wand up in short order; and shot an answering stunner back at the man. He had no idea where the Death Eaters were standing, for they’d certainly moved from their earlier spot by now, he hazarded a guess to the left.

The stunner missed; the red streak disappeared into the night.

But it gained him valuable seconds; hauling himself to his knees, he dove behind the shelter of a large tombstone and track his wand against Bellatrix’s movements.

And then, just out of his line of sight to the right, three curses came whizzing out, curses James couldn’t recognise, electric blue, red and pulsing yellow. The first missed the Death Eaters entirely, dipping harmlessly into a puddle of rainwater yards to their left, droplets splashing onto the mud at their feet; the second hit Lestrange in the eye, he dropped like a brick, clutching his face and shouting in agony, and the third smacked squarely into the head of the tombstone.

It exploded immediately, chunks of limestone flying backwards and outwards, hitting James on the shoulders and neck, and most dangerous of all, the calcium dust rising and swirling in clouds, the tiny particles entering his eyes and momentarily blinding him.

He couldn’t see, but he could still hear. Sirius was shouting, more spells, powerful curses, because James couldn’t understand the incantations, and the steady shuffle of his best mate’s steps, advancing to the right. There were other footsteps too, fast and slow, a steady stream of them bearing in from all around – the Aurors, arriving at last. Rodolphus had grown quiet, the agonised cries fading into long-drawn murmurs, but louder than these, the disturbingly jarring sound of Bellatrix cackling.

“Prongs, open your eyes!”

“Urghghgfk” –

_“James!”_

Gingerly, he unclosed one eye. His vision was undamaged, though anything more than ten yards away was slightly blurred. Bellatrix was close by, bent over Lestrange, hand on his shoulder. She looked up and shot James and Sirius a look of pure venom, heedless of the Aurors heading towards them. “I’ll get you later,” she hissed, “and next time, I won’t miss.”

 With a loud crack that shook the ground, the Lestranges disapparated.

Running footsteps came to a halt beside James. “Damn,” said a polished voice, “we’ve missed them again.” A shadow loomed over James, and a pair of blue eyes peered at him beneath a floppy brown fringe. “You okay, kid?”

Staggering to his feet, James wiped a layer of grime off his glasses. “Yeah… yeah, I’m fine.” Sirius was standing beside the young Auror, and James met his eyes. “You all right, Padfoot?”

Sirius shrugged. “Second time lucky, I reckon.”

The brown haired Auror eyed James critically. “The dust is still in your eyes. Hold steady.” He gripped James by the shoulder, whipped out his wand, and with a quick flick of his wrist, cleared the haze from James’ eyes.

“Thanks,” James muttered. He could hear no more fighting, so the duel must have finished. There were two more Aurors, picking up traces and samples of soil from where the two Death Eaters had disapparated, but otherwise, the town square was empty. “Where is everybody else?”

“They’ve got a makeshift hospital tent on the north bank. Can you two walk?”

“Yes,” Sirius said, falling into step beside them. “Why aren’t the casualties being taken to St. Mungo’s?”

The Auror’s blue eyes flickered. “St. Mungo’s hasn’t been equipped to deal with such a large emergency since Grindelwald got wrecked.” He brushed aside a low hanging branch and led them onto the river path. “Aren’t you Auror Potter’s son?” He grinned humourlessly when James nodded. “He’s under the impression that you’re fast asleep in bed at home. I don’t envy you when he finds out.”

Two large canvas tents had been put up by the time they arrived on the north bank. One was filled with people whose injuries had already been tended to; they sat quietly on cushions or chairs, nursing limbs covered with thick orange and yellow pastes, and sharing water from bottles handed out by lime-robed mediwitches. The other tent, to which the Auror led them, was a hive of activity, with people lying on stretchers and on the ground, and Healers running to-and-fro, carting medicine trolleys around, looking frantic. A heated, rancid stench hung thickly in the air, bringing bile to James’ throat.

A figure detached itself from the knot of Aurors gathered at the entrance.

“James!”

 _Godric._ James’ knees immediately turned to jelly. Sirius shuffled a step closer to him. “Em… hello, Dad.”

Dad stormed over, black robes flying out behind him, and clamped one hand on James’ shoulder, and the other on Sirius’. “What in Merlin’s name were you thinking? What… _how_ … you are supposed to be at home!”

“Dad, we couldn’t” –

“How did you get here?”

“We took a Portkey from your study,” Sirius admitted softly.

The wrinkles around Dad’s eyes whitened. “Are you two hurt?”

“No” –

“All right.” Dad cut James off. “Cavendish” – he glanced at the Auror who’d accompanied them – “De Sousa and Taunton are taking statements from the witnesses. Can you help them?”

“Right away, Sir.” Shooting the boys a sympathetic look, Cavendish strolled towards two Aurors who were talking to a gaggle of townsfolk.

“Right,” Dad said when Cavendish was out of earshot, “we’re going home as soon as we can” – he broke off midsentence and glanced over James’ shoulder. “What is it, Frank?”

Frank Longbottom looked wide-eyed at the boys. “Um, we’ve got the casualty reports, Auror Potter Sir. And Williamson’s got the soil samples, and Knighton’s lot have caught a few of ’em.”

“How many casualties?”

Frank bit his lip. “Forty-two.”

Dad sighed. “So many, Frank?”

“That’s the total. Twenty two dead, six missing, and the rest pretty heavily injured.”

“Any more?”

Frank squinted at the parchment in his hand. “Two hundred odd minor injuries. You’d better come, Auror Potter Sir.”

“All right.” Dad pointed a finger at James and Sirius. “You two stay right here. I will be back in five minutes. Then – directly home.” He turned towards the knot of Aurors once more.

Beside James, Sirius let out a sigh. “That went better than I expect.”

“Don’t bet on it. This is just a warm up. He’ll get into full swing when we’re back home.”

Sirius brushed a lock of blue hair out of his eyes. “Must say I don’t blame him.” He suddenly gave a bitter chuckle. “Bet my father wishes Bella could have finished me off this time around, at least.”

James blinked, and patted Sirius awkwardly on the arm. There was no reply he could make, really.

A step sounded behind them. “Potter? Black?”

James swung round so sharply his head swam. “Lily! Where were you – are you all right – you just disappeared” –

“I’m fine.” Her arm was in a sling, and mud streaked her face, but she looked otherwise uninjured. There was a sour-faced blond girl standing immediately behind her, one side of her face covered in yellow salve.

“Your sister?” Sirius inquired politely.

Lily nodded. “Tuna – um, Tuney. Tuney, meet Potter and Black.”

Tuna inclined her head ungraciously.  “Your friends have terrible names.” She wrinkled her nose. “Who names their children ‘Pothead’ and ‘Block’?”

Lily’s lips twitched. “I found Mummy and Daddy,” she said hurriedly, before either of the boys could respond, and waved over a tall, blond man and a petite redheaded woman. Cavendish, and the black-haired Auror who’d rescued her from the Death Eater earlier on, followed them. “They weren’t injured, thank goodness.”

Mrs Evans laid a hand on Lily’s shoulder. “We’ve lost our home, though.”

“There’s nothing left… at all?” James asked softly. He sneaked a glance over at Dad, who turned, sensing his gaze, and cast a thoughtful eye over Lily.

“Not a brick,” said Mr Evans sadly. “But none of us were badly hurt, and that’s important. We’ll have to move in with relatives until things settle down a bit.”

Lily shook her head. “I don’t think it’ll ever go back to normal, do you?”

“Maybe that’s a good thing,” Tuna said suddenly. The scowl was still in place. “We can get out of this backward place for good.”

“Stop it.” Lily’s voice was edged with steel. “You’ve got friends here, too.”

Tuna sniffed. “I won’t miss them much. And I won’t pretend it’s not good that the Snape boy is missing. And for goodness’ sake, can’t your lot get that disgusting smell out of here?”

“Not for a good many weeks,” Cavendish told her coldly. “Incinerated flesh usually leaves a semi-permanent mark.”

“Hang on,” James broke in, “Sniv – Snape is missing?”

Lily’s mouth turned down. “Yes. I can’t find him anywhere – or his mother, either.”

Sirius’ eyes met James’ over Lily’s head; their thoughts were identical. “When did you last see him?” Sirius asked.

“A few days ago – I… I was hoping he’s only gone away on holiday…”

“That’s a possibility, of course,” the black haired Auror told her gently. “Still, you’ve got to be prepared…” he broke off as Lily’s eyes filled with tears.

An icy hand gripped James’ innards and twisted them into a sailor’s knot. Why did it matter, anyway? Snivellus was pumped to the gills with the dark arts, so it would be no big loss even if he’d kicked the bucket. On the other hand, Snape was Lily’s friend. Suddenly, James was dead on his feet, his arms and head aching with a fierce intensity that nearly blinded him. Why was everything so bludgeringly complicated?

“Prongs,” came Sirius’ voice, sounding distant, “Uncle Charlus is calling us. He’s on the river path. We’d better go. See you later, Evans.”

“Bye,” James mumbled, turning away from the Evans’ goodbyes and following Sirius down the river path. The mud squelched under his feet; each step was mired in thick, viscous liquid, and when he looked down, the mud was running in thick streams down the side of the bank, and flowing into the river, turning the churning waters crimson where they met.

 

***

 

“Bed!” Charlus barked, once he apparated the three of them back to Potter Manor. He avoided landing in the study, instead choosing to arrive in the small lounge leading off into the boy’s rooms. He pointed a finger in the direction of said rooms. “Both of you! Now!”

“No.”

Charlus turned, stunned at the refusal.

_Sirius._

Sirius stood there now, leaning against the mantelpiece for support, pyjamas ripped and bloody about the legs, bandage loose and beginning to unwind beneath the grimy pyjama shirt. He was normally a fair boy, but at this moment his skin had a frightening pallor – a deathlike whiteness about the cheeks, and dull blue rivulets of veins ran the length of his face from chin to temple. He reached out with trembling fingers and took up a tiny wooden box that lay on the table next to the fireplace.

“Uncle Charlus,” Sirius began shakily, but Charlus cut him off with a swift motion of his palm.

“I told you boys – I didn’t just tell you, I expressly commanded you in fact – to stay in the house. Do you think I am unaware of what sort of dangers these cursed fires pose? Do you think, for one moment that I was about to let you go gallivanting off” –

“We weren’t gallivanting, Dad” –

“Oh, yes, you were, James, don’t you dare deny it! I told you, did I not, that these fires were set by Death Eaters?”

“But Dad, they’re just fire” –

“Uncle Charlus, we’ve handled” –

Charlus slammed his hand down on the table before him, wheeled about and faced the boys head on. “You haven’t handled _anything_ like this. Nothing. This is _not_ Defence Against The Dark Arts at school, Sirius, these are dangerous criminals” –

“I know Sir,” Sirius intervened quietly. His lip trembled. “I…I saw Bella. And Rodolphus.”

_Oh._

So the Lestranges had been there. What was it like, to see your family going on an arson and murder rampage? And these were Sirius’ torturers; he had come face to face with them again, had probably duelled them. Sick and injured, faculties dulled, he’d stood there and brought his wand up, again and again, bringing all his slender strength to bear on the curses, knowing, expecting, that every breath he took would be his last…

Slowly, the first red-hot flush of anger receded from Charlus’ blood. He couldn’t scold a child who had come so close to death. But that was just the point. Sirius should not have fought death, he should not have sought death out. And just as the fury fled, so was it replaced with disappointment and fear –sharp, bubbling terror, writhing like snakes in the pit of Charlus’ stomach.

Breathing deeply and willing his racing pulse to slow to a trot, Charlus fixed his gaze on Sirius. “That is exactly why you should not have come. I asked you to stay here and keep an eye on the wards. I didn’t just tell you that to keep you out of the way” – he grimaced when Sirius’ eyes flickered – “do you think I don’t know how these Death Eaters work? There was every possibility that this was a distraction; they knew that the Ministry would sent out their best Aurors to the fire, which meant that their families were wide open to attack by any Death Eaters specifically sent for the job.”

The blood had drained from both boys’ faces as he spoke. It didn’t seem possible that Sirius could become even paler, but he did – and for one tiny, everlasting moment, Charlus had a glimpse into a death’s head. It passed, as all such moments did; but Charlus never forgot that sudden flash of red in Sirius’ eyes.

James sighed gustily and collapsed onto the couch, rubbing his eyes. Dawn was breaking now; a blue and misty haze of dew covered the lawns and the trees outside, and the first fingers of pale yellow light were creeping in through the east-facing windows.

“Mum could’ve handled them, though,” James said quietly.

“She could have pulverised them any day of the week,” Charlus agreed, “but what about Tessie? And Tubby? Do you think their house-magic is strong enough to have carried them through a duel with five or six armed and prepared Death Eaters simultaneously? And Tubby is very young – do you think he has sufficient experience or strength to repel them effectively?”

“We…we didn’t think of that, Dad…”

Charlus raised an eyebrow. Heat began to stir in his veins once more, and then to course along his bloodstream up his arms and torso, bringing a flush to his face and neck. “Did you actually think of _anything,_ boys? Merlin knows the two of you aren’t stupid” –

“Dad, we” –

“Don’t interrupt me, James,” Charlus said coldly, and James snapped his mouth shut. “A moment’s contemplation would have led you to the same conclusion. But you boys never stop to think, do you?”

James scowled. “I thought you’d be happy,” he said bitterly, “that we didn’t hide away like some scared little bunnies…that we came there and did something.”

“I’d agree with that,” Sirius said softly. He was still very white, but the grey of his eyes was as hard as frozen steel. “You always tell us we shouldn’t let indecision or cowardice keep us from doing what’s right.”

“The world needs no proof of your bravery – from either of you two boys, and I do not need it either.” Charlus flexed fingers that had involuntarily tightened into a fist. The blood came rushing back with a dull, throbbing pain, and redness spread from his wrists to his palm. “And I say this specifically to you, James. Courage – of any sort, not just the flamboyant show of daring you seem to think it is – does not need an admiration or an audience to have its worth justified.”

“Charlus?”

It was Dorea. Black hair tumbled about her shoulders, and worry lines stood out sharply against the creamy skin of her forehead. She was wearing a blue nightie, and over it her yellow dressing gown.

“We…we didn’t wake you up did we, dear?” It was a superfluous question; it was obvious that she hadn’t been to bed at all, despite his Patronus earlier on.

“Don’t be silly.” She stepped completely into the room, and sank gracefully onto the sofa next to James. “This conversation has gone quite far enough.” She stared at both boys, brows drawn together, lips compressed. “I thoroughly and unequivocally agree with every single word Dad has to say about this matter. You boys cannot deny that you went tearing into the fray with little thought for life or limb, can you? What do you think we would have felt if you – _either_ of you – hadn’t come back?”

The flush of anger left James’ face at his mother’s pronouncement. Sirius swayed on the spot, and Charlus took a step forward, but before he could stretch out a supporting arm, the boy righted himself against the mantelpiece.

“Don’t tell me the thought didn’t occur to you?”

“I…I didn’t think of that, either, Mum.”

“Ah, Jamie. But you never do, do you?” Dorea smiled sadly. “Try anything like this again – specially you Sirius, on top of all your injuries – and I can guarantee neither of you will be returning to Hogwarts at all.”

“Mum!” –

“Aunt Dorea, we really” –

“That’s our final word, boys. Do not even _think_ of trying us.”

Charlus nodded. “Now to bed. It’s morning already. Any loose ends can be wrapped up after lunch.”

James left immediately, only pausing to shoot a hurt and puzzled glance at his parents, but Sirius did not stir. He intertwined his fingers together – the skin of each knuckle was tight and white; he hadn’t let go of his grip on the small box – then looked up at Charlus. Red spots burned in both cheeks, just beneath his eyes.

“I – I’ve thought a lot about today, Uncle,” he said, and his voice was quieter than it has ever been before, “and I – I _had_ to do it. I don’t know why…I…I can’t explain it, but I had to.” His Adam’s apple bobbed harshly as he sucked in a deep breath. “And I’m willing to give a witness statement – two statements – against Bellatrix and Rodolphus. For – for the cursing thing, and for the fire. It was they. I’m positive.”

And then, before Charlus could gather his thoughts together, Sirius turned abruptly, and left.

Charlus collapsed onto the couch next to Dorea. “Well, I’m knackered. I don’t know what’s worse – being an Auror, or being a father. Or wait, I do – it’s being a father, definitely. It’s far too stressful for me to handle. It’s a wonder I haven’t died yet.”

Dorea smiled and patted his hand sympathetically. “Oh you’ll survive, just the way you have these last sixteen years.”

“I don’t know what in Merlin’s name is the matter with those two, though.” He laid his fingers over Dorea’s, closed his eyes gratefully as her slender hand began to rub his own soothingly. “Are they just foolhardy – you know, Gryffindor high jinks and keeping up the old name and all that, we did that too – but they are taking it too far. Much too far.”

“I don’t think it’s that all together, dear.”

Charlus opened his eyes. “What do you mean?”

Dorea looked thoughtful. “You heard what Sirius said…he said he _had_ to do it. Perhaps he doesn’t quite realise it himself, but I think he was trying to prove a point to himself.”

“A point? How? What point could possibly be more important” –

“As you said, he’s very proud of being a Gryffindor, isn’t he?” Dorea cut right across Charlus. She did so very rarely, and Charlus fell quiet in spite of himself. “And with the fight he had with the Blacks before he left home…”

“He felt his courage was called into question,” Charlus finished.

“Indeed.” Dorea paused when the door opened and Tessie shuffled in – looking very sleepy – and went to the hearth to lay in the fire. “He’s lost most of his family already. It’s hardly likely he’d do nothing to stop himself losing another.”

“Merlin.” That was all Charlus could manage. It was beginning to make sense now, all the intricate, nebulous pieces of the puzzle beginning to fall together. Perhaps he’d been blind to the truth – there was of course, the chance that they were wrong, but a very slight chance, Dorea was usually very, very right – and he’d certainly been insensitive in his treatment of the boys. It was his confounded temper – he’d have to keep a better grasp on it. He leaned his head wearily against the back of the sofa. A dull, insistent pounding was beginning to nestle in the vicinity of his temples. “No wonder he decided to give us a witness statement too. He was dead set against it earlier – James told me he’d said that there was nothing that could be done.”

Dorea signalled to Tessie to leave, then frowned. “And about James” –

“Now, I surely know what’s wrong with him. He’s lost his senses! Or just tagged along to make sure Sirius wasn’t killed completely.”

“Didn’t Jamie say one of his friends lived in Cokeworth?”

“Yes – that little girl, Lily. I saw her today – red hair, green eyes. Had quite the fighting spirit, or so De Sousa says. She had a bit of a sparring session with James, too.”

“Ah.” That was all Dorea said, but she waggled her eyebrows mightily. She hadn’t done that since that long-ago day in sixth year when Charlus had taken a header into the lake and the Giant Squid had tossed him out again to land in a sodden heap at Dorea’s feet. It had been early morning then, as it was now, and the pale sunlight touched her face and her shining hair and made her all together quite lovely.

Charlus felt his face break into a smile and leaned in to kiss her, but before he could do so, her words and the meaning behind her waggle hit him with all the force of a whiplash, and it quite took his breath away.


	15. The Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But only for a fraction of a second; then the moment was gone, existing only in the imaginations of men and women, as the Minister for Defence leaned forward in her chair, and laid the scroll of parchment on the polished wood before her.

The silence was deafening. The bitter tang of defeat cut through the lowering air like a knife, and dripped, as thickly as blood, to gather in the reapers and rafters of the great conference chamber. For one infinitesimal moment, the table and the figures gathered around it might not have existed, enveloped, swallowed up by the gigantic mouth of failure that pulsed around them like a charged thundercloud.

But only for a fraction of a second; then the moment was gone, existing only in the imaginations of men and women, as the Minister for Defence leaned forward in her chair, and laid the scroll of parchment on the polished wood before her. The gesture had a curious finality, an implacable air of faint smugness that broke through the shields of reserve Charlus Potter usually wore to meetings such as these, and stirred the first flames of ire in his heart.

“Well, I don’t think there is anything more to say, ladies and gentlemen.” The voice of the Minister of Defence was smooth, modulated, well under control. “If we are all agreed on the decision” –

“No.”

It was Kingsley who had spoken. He was sitting relaxed, head back, fingers clasped in front of him.

The Minister turned to face him, brow gathering into wrinkles of irritation. “I beg your pardon, Auror Shacklebolt? I thought we have decided” –

“ _You_ have decided.” The hostility in Kingsley’s tone was slight, but unmistakeable. “ _We_ have done nothing more than give you the statistics compiled by the Aurors department. We have not even begun to discuss” –

“There is nothing to discuss, Auror Shacklebolt. The statistics speak for themselves” –

“Too right they do,” a growly voice cut across the Minister. Two steps down from Kingsley, Mad-Eye Moody banged his fist on the file in front of him. Charlus was glad that it wasn’t his walking stick, but on second thoughts, the latter might have had more impact on the Minister. “And if you’d listened to ’em, you’d know that we’re facing an imminent problem of mighty big proportions that can’t be swept under the carpet as neatly as you like.”

“Isn’t that what you do with your pawpaw peel and whatnot?” A light voice asked from the Minister’s left.

“You can laugh all you want, Shafiq my lad, but dancing dustbins aren’t something to be sneezed at,” Moody growled.

“Unless you get some of the peel up your nose,” Shafiq retorted, to hastily smothered titters from the rest of the room.

The Minister alone remained impassive. “What were your words, Auror Moody? Ah – ‘an imminent problem of mighty big proportions’ – fine words, but I fail to see their significance. A few casualties, a small – though regrettable – number of Muggle deaths – easily put down to negligence.”

Charlus leaned forward in his turn, gripping the table so hard his fingertips numbed. “Twenty five dead, Minister – that is three more since the last count – six missing, four children among that number, and eleven critically injured” –

“But all Muggles” –

“Beside the point, Yaxley,” Moody growled out, turning around and fixing his magical eye on Decimus Yaxley, seated next to the Minister. “Possession of magic is not pertinent to the value of human life.”

“This goes beyond negligence, Minister.” Charlus’ voice was quieter than it should have been, the words less laden with power, but he was too tired to care. The dull thudding in his temples had picked up, the outlines of the objects in the room were turning fuzzy around the edges. “This is a coordinated terrorist attack. And unless we stop it right here, right now, soon there’ll be more attacks like this mushrooming all over the country.”

The other Aurors – Moody, Kingsley, Victor Knighton, who was head of the Hit Squad, and Annabeth, his deputy, were nodding their ponderous approval. The administrators, or ‘talkies’ as the Aurors called them, looked vaguely discomfited. Yaxley and the Minister were both frowning, quills grasped tightly in bloodless fingers, Cornelius Fudge, head of the Magical Accidents and Catastrophes Department, who hadn’t said a word so far, was opening and closing his mouth soundlessly like a goldfish, and _That Woman_ , who was the worst of the lot, smiled, smug and toadlike.

Only Mushfiqur Shafiq, the Minister’s secretary –the youngest present – was unbothered, going so far as to hum a few snatches of ‘Odo the Hero’ under his breath.

Then Cornelius Fudge spoke. “See here, Potter,” he said, and his tones were full of the customary pleading that made Charlus’ stomach crawl whenever he heard them, “that’s a blatant assumption on your part – nothing more. These just can’t be terrorist attacks because there aren’t any terrorists these days. That is an outdated idea – insurgencies went out with Grindelwald” –

“What I want to know,” Shafiq said loudly, cutting across Fudge, “is why Cokeworth? What’s the importance of that piddly little place?”

Moody rapped his stick on the flagstones, this time in applause. “Well done, Shafiq, my lad,” he grunted. “I presume you weren’t invited to this conference for ornamental purposes only, so it’s about time you started asking the right questions.”

“Excuse me, but Shafiq is here in the capacity of my secretary” –

“And even secretaries have brains, Madam Minister.”

“I am not debating that point, Auror Shacklebolt” –

“Good. Then let’s give the boy an answer.” Kingsley shuffled the sheaf of parchment before him – a gesture only, since every argument he wished to make was already plotted out in his mind – and made eye contact with Shafiq. “Cokeworth, by itself is not significant. It has a tiny magical population, all Muggleborns save two, utterly unknown to the Department of Magical Records” –

“And thereby ripe for attack by anybody who wishes to make a case for pureblood supremacy,” Annabeth finished.

“This pureblood nonsense just doesn’t hold water,” Fudge insisted. “Shacklebolt, Potter – for Merlin’s sake, you two are purebloods! You have to see that” –

“All I see is that Cokeworth is on the way to everywhere significant.” _I’ve remained silent too long_. He leaned forward, steadfastly ignoring the twinge between his shoulder blades, and nodded to Shafiq. “To put it in your own words, ‘piddly’ does it justice – all that fuel and straw; a fire in waiting, you could say – and very, very conveniently on direct bus routes to Devon, Cornwall, York; the places with the biggest concentration of magical folk in England.” Taking a blank sheet of parchment, he drew the three cities, then connected them, spider-web fashion, marking two large blots where the three lines intersected. “Three districts, connected by two hotspots – Peterborough to the north, and Cokeworth to the south.”

“Very interesting, Auror Potter.” The Minister flicked her gaze from Charlus to Shafiq, frowning when the young man bit his lip and looked up from the diagram, “I’m sure my young colleague appreciates the explanation. However, all this” – she waved an arm dismissively – “does not affect the Statute of Secrecy after this deplorable incident.”

“Forgive me, Minister, but the measures you propose only benefit witches and wizards.” Kingsley’s voice held an edge of steel.

“But of course, man!” Fudge laughed heartily, but it rang hollow throughout the room. “We are the Ministry for _Magic,_ after all! The magical population is our first concern.”

“Not when it is a matter of safety, Mr Fudge.”

Startled, Fudge swung round to look at Annabeth, who held his gaze, a challenge in her eyes.

“Annabeth, my dear,” Fudge began, “you’re young yet… these matters of wizarding security are dangerous, complex” –

“Don’t patronize me, Mr Fudge. I’m a Hit Witch – I eat complicated and dangerous for breakfast! The Death Eaters have been running this set up for many years now, and we’re putting our best foot forward to catch them, but if you don’t give us your support on the administration front, we won’t be able to nip their little operation in the bud at all.” Her fist thudded on the arm of her chair in supreme imitation of Moody. “This has gone beyond the Statute now, Minister. A heck of a lot of people have died, and a whole lot will soon, unless we wipe out the terrorists once and for all!”

 _Excellent, Annie,_ _give it to ’em!_

Knighton looked proud, Moody was wearing a grimace that passed for a smile, and even diplomatic Kingsley had laugh lines around his eyes. Fudge’s resemblance to a goldfish had increased with astonishing rapidity. Yaxley and the Minister were poker-faced, Shafiq began on the third stanza of ‘Odo’, and the That Woman, or ‘Toady’, as he called her –

_“Hem hem.”_

And then, just like that, the spell was broken.

“Forgive me, Hit Witch,” Toady began, “but these Death Eaters that you claim to have wreaked so much havoc simply don’t _exist._ ”

Annabeth’s blond eyebrow disappeared into her fringe. “I have a name, Madam Umbridge. And the Death Eaters _do_ exist. They are followers of the known agitator who styles himself Lord Voldemort” – she ignored Yaxley’s wince and narrowed her eyes at Toady – “we have captured sixteen of them in the past ten years” –

“All of whom have died under suspicious circumstances,” Toady countered.

“Oh yes. I wonder why they died so suddenly after divulging sensitive information in interviews,” Knighton agreed coldly. “One might even begin to think that Lord Voldemort offs his discarded minions.”

“We have no confirmed witness reports that this fire is the work of Death Eaters – if such a network _does_ exist.” Yaxley’s tones were unabrasive and low, he had recovered well from his slip-up.

“We are currently taking a statement from Sirius Black” –

Yaxley’s lip curled. “The boy is unhinged” –

“Shut up!” Brilliant, burning rage coursed through Charlus, bringing a flush of crimson to his cheeks and a sudden burst of energy that had him on his feet in an instant. His head rushed, but shaking his impatiently to clear it, he eyed Yaxley squarely. “Sirius has undergone a tremendous amount of stress, but he is certainly not mentally unstable. How dare you make such a suggestion! Oh, but they say, do they not, that the insane do not recognise their own kind when they see them” –

“Charlus” –

“Quite at pains to deny the existence of Death Eaters, aren’t you, Yaxley? Sirius’ testimony will be perfectly sound” –

“Charlus!”

Charlus paused when cool fingers wrapped around his arm and guided him back to his seat. “Easy there,” came Kingsley slow voice, and Charlus quietened, letting the hot flush recede from his face, absorbing the expressions of shock and bewilderment around the table, heightened in the harsh artificial sunlight streaming in through the charmed windowpanes.

“Thank you, Auror Potter, for that touching display of paternal sentiment,” the Minister said testily. “Now, if we return to the matter at hand” –

“Thank you, Minister.” Umbridge extracted a piece of violent pink parchment from her folder, and passed it to Shafiq, who eyed it as though it was a revolting cockroach, and took it reluctantly by a corner to hand to Moody. “This is a list of all armed organisations registered with the Ministry. You will note that the Death Eaters are not Ministry-approved, and therefore, do not exist!”

“I beg your pardon, Madam Umbridge.” Kingsley prodded the parchment with his wand. “Are you suggesting that the Ministry now passes legislature to approve terrorist networks?”

Umbridge flushed.

Charlus grinned. Neither Knighton nor Moody bothered to hide their laughter, even Shafiq let out a snort.

“That – that is not what I meant… no terrorist organisation can be recognised as such” –

“Quite,” said the Minister dryly. “You’ve made your point, both of you. But the fact remains that whatever threat – however great or covert it is – is of secondary importance to the protection of the Statute.”

Knighton raised his hand. “Minister, wouldn’t you like to know what measures we are already taking to round up the Cokeworth attackers?”

“That is beside the point” –

“Three suspects caught onsite at Cokeworth.” Moody brushed aside Umbridge’s interruption as though she was no more than a fly. “The magical imprints of at least ten more are being currently analysed. Suspects have been interrogated, and anybody with information to share has been asked to come forward. We ask for your approval to cooperate with the Muggle pleasemen of Cokeworth; their detectives have turned up valuable intelligence” –

Umbridge coughed primly, and the Minister heaved in her seat. “Enough.”

Slowly, deliberately, the Minister laid down her quill, shaking the last drops of purple ink on to the blotter, and snuffed out the candle that lay beside her. “Enough waffling. Call in the Obliviators. The Muggle authorities will be told that this is a regular industrial fire. You will not work with the Muggle law enforcement, you will only pursue investigations locally. The perpetrators – should you find them – will be dealt with locally. You heard our final word on the matter. This is not a terrorist investigation. Case closed.”


	16. Assignments

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You would be wise to watch your tongue in these halls,” Severus muttered, turning left into a dark passageway and making his way towards the room where the robes and masks awaited their arrival.

The bare courtyard was gloomy, resting in the shadows of the buildings around its quadrangle, yet even in the dark, Evan’s lips were starkly white; the pallor outdoing even the marble of his forehead and chin. Two brilliant crimson spots burned high upon his cheeks as he dropped to his knees, cradling his wrist in the fingers of his left hand. Severus could not stop staring at the angry black serpent carved into the pale flesh of his friend’s forearm.

“Congratulations.” Selwyn’s tones as cold and distant as ever. “You are now officially in the service of the Dark Lord.” He stared down unblinkingly at the boy. “How does it feel?”

“Pain,” Evan hissed, doubling up and bringing his arm to his chest.

“It will ease in a moment.” A slight upward quirk of the lips. “You took it better than most. Your father will be proud.”

“He… isn’t… even here…”

“He is away on a mission for the Dark Lord, as you well know.” Selwyn stepped back from the shivering boy. “I will inform him personally of your initiation. Your brother, on the other hand…”

“My brother is unwell.” Evan spat out a mouthful of blood, and rose shakily to his feet. Three steps to his right, and he leaned heavily against Severus, who twitched under the sudden weight, but did not move away. “He… would have been here… if he could.”

Selwyn raised a cool eyebrow. He was not wearing his mask. “He has had enough time to recover.”

Evan gritted his teeth, and shifted to take back some of his own weight. “He has matters to attend to, at home.”

Selwyn snorted. “No doubt. Just as well his talents lie in books and research. An initiation ceremony would be of little interest to him.” Turning, he cast an appraising eye over Severus. “Are you ready?”

A lifetime to answer that question would not suffice.

“Yes,” Severus said, and moving slightly away from Evan, thrust his own forearm out.

A flash of light and a gasp later it was all over, but the memory of it – the sharp, shooting pain that paralysed his entire body and set alight his wrist and fingers, the billowing waves of nausea that followed immediately afterwards, the cruel gravel cutting into his skin as he fell to his knees in a bid to avoid sicking up, desperately pulling at the veil of crowding spots that insisted on swimming before his eyes – the moment was everlasting, etched into his mind forever. It seemed an eternal moment before the mists cleared from his vision, and Evan’s icy cold fingers closed over his upper arm and helped him up. The tattoo was burned black into the skin; a slightly rancid smell hung about it. Curling his left hand into a fist, he resisted the temptation to touch his wrist, to run his fingers over the curling tongue of the snake, the curve of the skull.

Selwyn eyed the Mark appreciatively. “Congratulations to you too,” he intoned. “Very well taken. Your masks and robes are awaiting you indoors.” He pocketed his wand and strode back towards the main building. “Do not take too long to recover,” he called over his shoulder. “The best robes will be served to those who come to the counter first.”

The two boys stood there for a few minutes, heads bowed against the vestiges of hot breeze that found its way through the gaps in the buildings and the branches of the trees beyond the entrance to the quad, slightly disturbing the soil on the two freshly turned mounds of earth that lay in a corner of the courtyard. Evan’s skin was still burning; the feverish heat radiated through to Severus. Doubtlessly his own skin was the same. Their breaths punctuated the air, short, sharp and harsh, fruitlessly searching for an easier rhythm.

At length, Evan spoke. “Didn’t go too badly, did it?”

Severus shrugged.

“Disappointed, Sev?” Evan’s blue eyes lightened fractionally. “But always one for an audience weren’t you?”

“I do not see why all the recruits could not have been initiated together,” Severus said tightly, making tracks towards the hall. He was careful to keep in the shadows, where the air was cooler, and soothing to his still-angry forearm. “I also thought… the Dark Lord would have wished to attend.”

Evan huffed out a laugh. His powers of recuperation were truly admirable. “We’re small fry to the Dark Lord, Sev. Even the likes of my brother aren’t on his radar fully yet. But we’ll be on to the missions soon – the really good stuff.”

“I look forward to it.”

“We got lucky with Selwyn.” Evan followed Severus into the entrance hall, and made the candles flicker into life with a shaky wave of his wand. “He’s not one for theatrics. I wouldn’t like to be in Mulciber’s place, or Avery’s. Just think of the stuff Macnair’s probably got lined up for them – torture and garrotting… positively medieval.”

“You like duelling,” Severus pointed out.

“Duelling is fun… exhilarating. Unnecessary pain? Not so much.”

“You would be wise to watch your tongue in these halls,” Severus muttered, turning left into a dark passageway and making his way towards the room where the robes and masks awaited their arrival. He agreed with Evan, though wild Abraxans would not drag the words out of him. The secrecy, the covert operations: this was what made it exciting, sent the adrenaline rushing through his blood in torrents. Gratuitous hurt and humiliation held no attraction – except in a few select cases.

But no, he must not think of Potter now, and spoil this moment. Though he had to admit the absence of a proper ceremony was disappointing. It would have been fitting to seal his place in the ranks of these powerful people, to be marked as somebody of importance, of intelligence, among his peers.

Cholmondeley Parkinson was at the counter, handing out robes. Neither Mulciber nor Avery were there yet, but Pontinius was standing off to the side, resplendent in the deep crimson robes of the Knights of Walpurgis. He was looking distinctly unhappy, because standing right beside him was Bellatrix Lestrange.

Severus’ toes curled involuntarily, and he had to fight hard to keep his lips from following suit. Beside him, Evan’s grip on his wand tightened imperceptibly.

But Bellatrix was in a sunny mood. “Congratulations, Cousin,” she cooed upon seeing Evan, and sweeping up to him, angled his face to the dim light with a long forefinger under his chin. “You’ve done the family proud. Looking forward to your first mission?”

Evan stepped away quickly, his answer closed and monotonous: “Yes, Bella.”

Her lips curled up in a wide grin. “You’ll be off back to that idiotic Dumbledore’s pocket soon. Let’s see if we can get you in on some fun before then.” Her tone was considerably less enthusiastic when she addressed Severus.  “And you, I suppose, Snape. Can’t keep good talent down.”

 _But you sure as heck tried, did you not?_ “There is enough time before the holidays end to do some work for the Dark Lord.”

“Your enthusiasm does you credit.” Her smile stretched wider, and she glanced at Parkinson. “Might as well take them along to Cornwall, since they missed out on Cokeworth. We’re to be congratulated – that was a tremendous success.”

Parkinson eyed her warily. “When will Rodolphus be back?”

“He’ll be along in his own good time, Parkinson. Peterborough suits him just fine for now.” She tapped Evan’s forearm, inches above the still-reddened tattoo. “Would these three” – she included Pontinius with a jerk of the head – “be an asset, do you think?”

Parkinson hesitated – for appearance only, Severus knew, for nobody dared disagree with Bellatrix – then nodded. “Of course. Your skills will be valuable in Cornwall.”

Evan’s breathing hitched. “When will this be?”

Bellatrix’s eyes glinted. “Oh, soon enough. We will let you know in good time, don’t you worry.” She patted Evan lightly on the shoulder, then moved towards Pontinius. “You’re in luck, Nott. Start researching up on Cornwall now itself. Here’s your chance to show your colours.” She glanced back at Evan out of the corner of her eyes. “And I hope your brother recovers soon enough to join in. Not to mention the small task I have in mind for him, with our little cousin Reggie.”

_Regulus?_

Severus kept his expression impassive, though Evan perked up. “What’s that?”

“Oh just a little teaching job.” Bellatrix waved a hand dismissively. “You would be wise to brush up on your skills, Evan, Snape. The whole lot of you did quite well in your Test, and it would be excellent if you could duplicate it in Cornwall.”

Severus turned away at the sheer pleasure in her tones, unable to suppress the shudder that ripped through his body. He could not keep his mind from wandering back to tiny mounds of earth in the courtyard that covered the handiwork of Mulciber’s and Avery’s Test, or the dark, silent stone room opposite the quadrangle, where, laid out on the bare cold bench was a girl with red hair and hazel-green eyes, locked in a sleep from which she would not wake.

 

*******

 

 

“A killing curse?”

The candle sputtered, its orange flame dimming, and throwing into bleak shadows the rough-edged mahogany table and the two people seated opposite him. The watchband of the man on the left glittered dully, feebly, then shrank back into the darkness when its owner moved his arm.

Sirius lifted his chin – not too high, just enough to create a slight angle – and stared at his questioner. “An attempted killing curse. Two, in fact. I dodged them.”

“Impossible. Nobody survives the killing curse.” Barty Crouch’s tones were sharp and acidic.

“It’s not hard to just step aside, you know. Especially when you know what’s coming.”

The other man, the one with the golden watch, whose name Sirius didn’t know yet, leaned forward at this, his face looming clear out of the shadows. “How _did_ you know it was coming?”

“It’s Bellatrix and Rodolphus. They’re my cousins.” Sirius gritted his teeth, and winced when a crackle sounded from the back of his jaw. “I’ve grown up around Bella. I know her style,” he snapped. “She likes to toy around first, then move in for the kill when the victim is tired.”

“Very well,” Crouch said crisply, “taking your statement as reliable, that’s two Unforgivables. That should be enough to bring them into Azkaban for a good five years at least, not to mention their role in the attack on Cokeworth” –

“Provided you find them,” Sirius cut in.

“Do you doubt that, Mr Black?”

Sirius raised an eyebrow in his best imitation of Remus, and bit back a grin when the man looked discomfited. “You might find Rodolphus. A thickhead like that shouldn’t be too hard to track, but Bellatrix? She can vanish without a trace.”

With a quick flick of his wand, Crouch intensified the flame on the candle, and conjured three others to float in a row behind their heads. The sudden rush of light blinded Sirius momentarily, and he automatically shut his eyes against the glare. They’d been in here for over an hour now, and the interrogation was progressing at snail’s pace. He was still tired after the fight at Cokeworth three days ago, and though he’d shed his bandage and cast before duelling, he ached in every bone of his body. At least – against all odds – his reserves of magic hadn’t suffered, but he was irritated, and snappish, which wasn’t helping things with Crouch at all. It would have been nice to have Uncle Charlus here with him, if not for the Defence ministerial meeting, but even with his moral support, Sirius knew this was something he had to do alone.

“You underestimate the prowess of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement,” Crouch told him.

“Oh yes,” Sirius said, and didn’t bother to keep the bite out of his voice, “you all did so well initially recognising the attack on Cokeworth.”

Crouch flushed an ugly scarlet, and the other man choked. “That brings us to another matter,” the second man said tersely, and picking up a thick piece of parchment, shook a finger under Sirius’ nose. “You’ve breached the Statute of Secrecy by doing magic in the presence of Muggles.”

Sirius snorted violently, and cracked his jaw again.  “I was trying to help those Muggles actually, though it might have escaped your notice.”

Crouch’s lips thinned. “You’re walking a fine line here, Mr Black. The Department does acknowledge the unusual circumstances and your – ah – assistance,” his toothbrush moustache bristled, as though in opposition to his words – “you will be let off with a warning this once.”

“What a relief,” Sirius murmured.

The two men ignored him, and Crouch pulled out another roll of parchment. “The medical statement your Healer has provided is troubling. List of injuries: sprained right ankle, broken left arm” –

“That turned out to be a hairline fracture” –

Waving a dismissive hand, Crouch barrelled on, “nerve damage to fingers and toes, stab wound to the abdomen by a Cleaving curse” –

“I find that hard to believe,” the second man broke in. “Cleaving curses were outlawed centuries ago.”

“Just because it’s outlawed doesn’t mean nobody knows how to do them,” Sirius snapped.

“They’re tracked. The Ministry receives immediate notice of anybody performing them.”

“Pardon me” – Sirius might have added a _sir_ at the end, if he wasn’t so irritated – “but the ministry knows nothing of what goes on inside Grimmauld Place.”

 “An investigation will rectify that soon,” Crouch said stiffly.

“Good luck with that,” Sirius shot back. “I look forward to hearing about your findings. And be sure to take a look at the silver dagger board in the upstairs parlour. A particular favourite of Rodolphus’, actually.”

“It is not a crime to own a dagger, Mr Black.”

“But werewolf hunting is a crime, is it not?”

Raindrops thundered against the charmed windowpanes, glimmering eerily in the candlelight. Sirius let the silence fester; Crouch was a hard man to shock, but this hit had gone home perfectly.

“How do you know he’s werewolf hunting?” The other man asked at last, stifling a cough.

Sirius raised a nonchalant eyebrow. “Old pureblood tradition. You should know,” he nodded to Crouch, whose face hardened instantly as though turned to stone.

“Do all members of your family engage in this sport?”

“No,” Sirius said shortly. “My father is not fond of it.” _And Reggie certainly doesn’t._ “But Rodolphus likes it. Especially when he’s drugged,” he added.

Crouch leaned forward, taking up the horned owl feather quill at his elbow and scribbling on the parchment. “Drugged with what, Mr Black?”

“I couldn’t say what, but he was drugged all right.” Sirius shrugged, and tugged the sleeves of his robes over his wrists. “Irises as big as crystal balls, and about as glazed as frosting on a Christmas cake.”

“You were fortunate to have escaped further attacks from Lestrange in that state,” Crouch said icily. “Although, with such an impressive list of injuries, you should be dead anyway.”

“Too bad I couldn’t oblige.”

The second man tapped his fingers on the desk. “We have doubts about the Healer’s statement” –

“McKinnon is a bloody brilliant Healer,” Sirius cut the man off. “I’m here and kicking, aren’t I?”

“Vigorously,” Crouch muttered under his breath, then looked up at Sirius. “You made a full recovery in a matter of three weeks without hospitalisation. Frankly, I’m sceptical.”

“Aunt – Mrs Potter is an excellent domestic Healer. McKinnon arrived on the spot quickly too. The injuries have been tended to consistently.” Rather less regularly as of late, due to McKinnon’s sudden disappearances, but Sirius wasn’t about to air that out loud. He discreetly slipped his hand into his pocket, shoulders relaxing fractionally when his fingers found the tiny sandalwood box he kept with him always now, letting the cooling currents flow over him. That was another thing he’d be keeping to himself. “I’m a fast healer,” he said instead.

Crouch looked unconvinced, but the second man crossed off an item off the parchment, and nodded to Sirius. “Very well, that is all we require for the moment. If there is any more information needed from you, the Ministry will owl you.”

“All right.” Sirius rose, but was not halfway to the door when he hesitated. “What happens if anyone is arrested – if you raid Grimmauld, I mean?”

“They will be taken to Ministry holding cells or Azkaban, pending a trial,” Crouch said.

A sudden tightening of his chest, and Sirius took a step forward tentatively, mindful of stumbling. “And… and what happens to any underage wizards in their care?”

A faint shadow flickered over Crouch’s face, a movement so fleeting it might not have happened, but Sirius could have sworn that it was a look of pity. “Providing the child is old enough to decide for himself, he may stay at home, or be placed with relatives temporarily.”

“You should not worry on that score, Mr Black,” the second man said. “There shouldn’t be any obstacle to your current living arrangement with the Potters.”

 _But this isn’t about me._ “Thank you,” Sirius said, and turning the handle of the heavy door, slipped quickly from the room.

The young Auror who’d shown him in was standing at the door. He’d helped them during the fire – Cavannah?  Callendar? – but he looked different now, in deep blue robes, and neatly combed light brown hair. “Did that go all right?” He asked.

“Well enough, I suppose.”

“I wish they weren’t closed interviews.” Something akin to regret washed over his features. “Crouch can be savage occasionally.”

“He wasn’t as bad as I thought he’d be,” Sirius admitted.

The Auror’s lips twitched. “You must have made quite the impression on him,” he murmured. “Auror Potter is waiting for you outside.” He led Sirius through the Auror department. Most were busy at their desks and too absorbed to pay attention, but the dark-haired Auror who’d helped Lily looked up and waved, from his desk next to a woman with long brown hair who was also slightly familiar.

Uncle Charlus was in the corridor, conversing with a tall, dark man. “Thank you, Thaddeus,” he was saying, “it’s an interesting result to say the least” –

“Happy to help. If you need anything more from the laboratory, just drop us a line. It’s certainly intriguing that the imprint was mending itself” – the man stopped abruptly, and stared at Sirius. “Your charge is here, Charlus.”

Uncle Charlus turned and put out one hand to Sirius, stuffing a small parcel into his pocket with the other. “Ran into any trouble? Good” – when Sirius shook his head – “let’s be getting you home, then. Jamie must have torn half his hair out by now.”

Sirius suppressed a chuckle, and looked at the Auror who was standing by the door. “Thank you, erm” –

“Cavendish,” he supplied. “Laurence… you can call me that.”

“Thank you, Laurence,” Sirius said, and followed Uncle Charlus into the lift.

 

*******

_July 27 th 1976_

_Cheapside_

_Dear Professor Imago,_

_I’ve become interested in enhancing stimulants after we covered that chapter on spices in class, and I’ve been reading up on them a bit. There’s a lot on cinnamon, jasmine and aloe – the usual stuff we covered in class, but relatively little on sandalwood. In fact, the only paragraph I found about it was a small one in_ Lost Spices and Herbs of South Asia _by_ Veena Gopalraj. _It says that sandalwood, when dried, powdered and aged in the sun for the correct number of months develops strong healing properties. That’s about all I can find – apart from another sentence about its uses in perfume (but I think the girls can understand that bit better than me!)_

_I’m curious because a friend got a small sachet of sandalwood as a present (he’s finished it all by now) and he said he’s been particularly fit since he kept it in his pocket. The sachet had a tiny swastika drawn on it – and that was interesting too, coming after the symbols we studied for OWLs – so I looked up swastikas as well._

_They’re for good luck – at least, that’s what the textbook says, and I hung up several on the north windows in my dorm like we did in the Divination Tower, but_ Unravelling the Mystique of Buddhism _(but Buddhism’s a philosophy, so there’s no real mystique in that, is there?) says it’s for balance and a healthy existence. Have we interpreted it incorrectly, or is the book wrong? The only mention I can find about the swastika after that is that it was used as a party symbol by the Nasties who were some sort of military organisation in Europe in the 1940s? I haven’t been able to dig much deeper than that, but they’re Muggles, so I guess it isn’t very important anyway._

_There were some other words as well drawn next to the swastika – a bit blurry, but I could make out hath pana athma, but ‘seven-life-soul’ doesn’t make any sense!_

_I’m so sorry to interrupt your holiday, only I was interested in this because it’s one of the few times some practical Divination has come my way. I hope your writing is going well; have you named the book yet?_

_Your student,_

_Peter Pettigrew._


	17. Maps And Musings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sirius held up a chastising hand. “Quiet, Minion! Who here is named after a celestial body? You or I? I, that’s who! And so it shall be a planet if I say it is” –

“Oh, look who it is, Padfoot!”

“Indeed, Prongs. It’s the moon: the furry moon” –

“The wolf who lives in the moon” –

“WolfyMcWerewolf; guardian of the most celestial of planets” –

“But Padfoot, the moon isn’t a planet” –

Sirius held up a chastising hand. “Quiet, Minion! Who here is named after a celestial body? You or I? I, that’s who! And so it shall be a planet if I say it is” –

Remus grinned at the sooty faces and hands of his friends, visible through the Floo. It was almost two months since he’d seen them last, but hearing their cheerful, nonsensical chatter was panacea enough even for the constant, nagging ache that never left his bones these days. Then the OWL results came, and Remus had been happier about the unexpected Exceeds Expectations for Potions than he’d been about the nine Outstanding grades he’d received for other subjects. Mama had been bemused but thrilled, but Dad had been over the moon, and had carted them off to Dartmoor for a week.

He’d wanted to visit Potter Manor last month, with Peter, but Mama had put her foot down – literally, on the hem of his robes, while his head and shoulders were already in the fireplace.

 _Apron strings,_ a voice that sounded remarkably like Sirius shouted gleefully at the back of his mind, but Remus ignored it.

Instead, he drank in another draught of his best friends’ faces. “You’re looking well, Prongs,” he said, “bit fat around the cheeks.”

Sirius grinned. “Aunt Dorea’s been feeding him up like anything.”

James nudged Sirius. “You’re one to talk,” he said, tones laced with good-humoured indignation, “that’s a case of pot calling the kettle… oh.”

Remus laughed at the look of dawning comprehension on James’ face, then turned his attention back to Sirius. “Go on, then. Tell us about the witness statement.”

Sirius raised an eyebrow. “What happened to the copious amounts of tact you usually employ? Lost them in storage, have you?”

Remus shrugged. “My knees are hurting and the flames are tickling my ribs. There’s no time for finesse. Just spill the beans, Padfoot.”

Sirius raised one shoulder in a seemingly easy shrug, but the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes told another tale. “It was all right. I wasn’t in the best of mood to tell you the truth – may have been a tad snappish, but Crouch wasn’t too hard on me, so I suppose there’s no harm done.”

“Do you think they have any chance of catching Bellatrix at all?”

“Not a chance in hell, Moony. It angers me – I’m not going to pretend it doesn’t, but the Ministry are inactive. I’d rather go out there and find her and kill her myself.” Sirius chin came up in characteristic fashion, his eyes began to shoot sparks of steel.

“Won’t that be biting off more than you can chew” –

“I’m not in the mood for platitudes,” Sirius said dangerously. “I have a much better chance of catching up with Bellatrix, simply because I know her better. The Ministry might well catch Rodolphus. They’ll have plenty of charges beside attempted murder, what with the werewolf hunting” – he stopped abruptly, as though his words were sheared off by a scythe.

The hairs on the back of Remus’s neck prickled. Sirius was avoiding his eyes, and the colour was unusually high in James’ cheeks. “Werewolf hunting?” Remus asked slowly.

Sirius’ eyes – pools of liquid guilt – darted up to meet his own. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to tell you because – well…”

“Does anybody else do it?” His voice came out in a whisper.

“Father doesn’t. Even Uncle Cygnus can’t stand it. But the Lestranges… and the Yaxleys, the Averys, the Travers… there’s a dagger collection in the parlour. I’m so sorry, Moony.”

“All those times I’ve snuck into your house, Sirius. What they’d have done to me if they knew…”

“They don’t know.” James’ voice rose sharply on the last word. “We’re cautious. We give nothing away. Living in a world of what ifs is dangerous, Moony.”

“More dangerous than being hunted, James?”

“Yes,” James hissed vehemently. “Hunting is a physical danger, isn’t it? You can prevent it – avoid it. But these mental games are just a whirlpool that’s going to suck you down till you drown in it.”

Remus shrugged, tightening his lips to keep from snapping back. There was no point arguing with James. It was easy for him to cast aside his worries, to simply fix his mind on more pleasurable pursuits. But Remus didn’t have that luxury.  “I’ve done some work on the map,” he said instead. The map was worth many years of sterling mischief making, and his friends’ attention was better spent on this than his eternal worries.

His friends’ eyes lit up immediately. “Did you get the people moving?” Sirius asked eagerly. “Did your dad’s spells work?”

“Almost there, Padfoot. Dad’s spells helped, but it’s more complicated than that. The Sentient Charm works for both spirituous and non-spirituous beings, but when we’re dealing with shape-shifters” –

“Why don’t you come along here and show us? You’ve got the map on you, right?”

“Well yes, but” –

“No buts,” declared James. “You’ll hurt yourself worse kneeling on those hard stones. Come right through.”

Remus looked over his shoulder. “But Mama” –

Sirius dismissed this half-formed objection with an airy wave of the hand. “Hope has no cause for worry, Moony. We’re responsible people, aren’t we?”

“I doubt we” –

But Remus could not complete that sentence either, because Sirius’ arm suddenly shot into the flames and closed tightly around his shoulder. There was a tug behind his navel –like Apparition – then soot plugged up his eyes, nose and mouth and choked him. Mindful of his whirling head, he stuck out his arms and tried to grab any part of Sirius that he could reach, but before he’d got hold of more than a fistful of fabric, his knees hit stone again.Stumbling, he tried to straighten up, but his shoe lodged in a crevice between two stones, and the world tilted over.

“Oof,” came Sirius’ voice from somewhere under him. “Gerroff me, Moony.”

“Your fault,” Remus replied, not shifting an inch. “If you hadn’t caught me so suddenly” –

Sirius grumbled until James stopped laughing and dragged him up. “Merlin Moony,” he said, dusting himself off, “you’re heavy for someone so thin.”

Remus shrugged, spreading out the map and the stack of notes – slightly crumpled from days spent in his pocket – on the table. The others took seats next to him. “I entered all the anthropometric data for everybody first” –

“Spells?” Sirius asked, busily scribbling on a parchment. He acted as secretary at these cartography sessions.

“An Information Imbibing charm, and then a modified Duplication charm. And then I tried the Sentient charm to get the dots to move, but it only worked on the fixed form figures. Got stuck there.”

Frowning, James scratched his chin with his quill. “That’s a poser. It won’t require Transfiguration, because we aren’t changing the inherent physical properties of the objects, are we?”

“Nope,” Sirius answered, scribbling even more furiously. “These are not objects – they are sentient souls, whether human or animal. I don’t see why the Sentient charm gets stuck” –

“It works all right for the humans and animals, although slowly. It’s the ghosts and the other creatures, like Thestrals, that are giving it trouble. And Dumbledore’s phoenix, too.” Remus picked a loose thread on his jumper, feeling the familiar beginnings of a headache behind his eyelids. “I’d say the trouble is that the Sentient charm gets confused when a new cycle of life begins…”

“I don’t see how,” Sirius said slowly, “the Sentient charm deals with the soul, and obviously the soul doesn’t change when the cycle renews…”

“I’ve been thinking about that, Padfoot. I can’t be sureobviously, but the only explanation I can come up with is that the Sentient charm only works on souls that are inhabiting one cycle of life.”

“That makes sense when you think of the phoenix,” James agreed, “or the Thestrals – they change cycles every time someone sees them, don’t they? But what about Animagi? It didn’t work on our dots, nor on yours, Moony.”

Sirius stirred uneasily. “Animagi don’t change their life cycles every time they transform, do they?” He seemed uncomfortable with the idea.

“I don’t know about that. But there’s one other charm I found,” Remus said quietly, drawing his sleeve across his eyes. The pain didn’t diminish, so he ignored it and kept his gaze on his friends. “It’s called the Homonculous charm. It’s supposed to animate symbols drawn for data about living organisms that are represented in technical drawings.”

“Oh?” Sirius raised one eyebrow – and the effect was quite good, Remus had to admit, though he thought his own version was still better – looking interested. “And I suppose cartography falls into this category?”

“Luckily,” Remus acknowledged. “I tried it out on a map of our house with data fed in for my parents, and it worked. And I drew another one for McGonagall’s office, and that worked for her Animagus form. But it didn’t work when I tried it on the big map.”

James threw down his quill, looking tired. “What’s the use of that, then? We’ve been at a dead end on this one for months!”

“Wait a minute, Prongs,” Sirius interrupted. He looked at Remus and waggled his eyebrow. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“A somnambulant Tap dancing hex on your left eyebrow, Pads?”

Sirius chucked a handy cushion at his head, which he ducked – narrowly – with much creaking of his kneecaps. “All right, all right,” he chuckled, “Singly, they might be useless. But a combination of the two…”

A harsh intake of breath to his right indicated that James’ interest was stirred. “Ready to try it out on the school map?” James asked, smoothing it out. “Or do you want to go with a test map first?”

“Hogwarts, I suppose,” Remus said. Truthfully, he was in no mood to pen another test map; James would probably want to draw one of Potter Manor, which, though infinitely fascinating, was of the sprawling variety, and Remus couldn’t cope with any more drawing with this headache now firmly settled behind his eyes. He pulled the map towards him, smoothing out the creases as best he could, and pointed his wand at one of the stationary black blobs on the map.

 _“Sententiato!”_ The blob sprang to life, moving swiftly along the corridor towards the windows outside the section labelled Hospital Wing.

Sirius drew in a long breath, and shared a smile with Remus. “That’s part of it done, then. The Homonculous should add the nametags and track the movements, right? But by Merlin’s saggy left” –

“Padfoot!”

“All right, all right!” Sirius rolled his eyes and chortled. “If we have to animate each symbol individually, I’ll go insane!”

“You already are,” James murmured, and quickly dodged Sirius’ jab to his ribs. “A maxima should do it, I think.”

Remus cleared his throat. _“Sententiato maxima! Homonculio maxima!”_

The wand thumped the parchment with focused power, and then, from beneath the wand tip, tiny, curling black skeins of ink began to run all over the map, weaving a fine web of nametags and labels beneath each dot. All the dots sprang to life too; large, slow-moving blots in some cases, dividing into two matching footprints in others, attaching themselves to other dots, as though travelling in pairs in still other cases. And there were no blockages or time-lags; it was a perfect, miniature real-time blueprint of Hogwarts.

Remus watched, entranced at the swarming castle; at Hagrid’s swift-moving dot at the perimeter of the Forbidden Forest, at Dumbledore’s and Fawkes’ dots melding into one large blotch up in the Headmaster’s office, at Professor Fenwick’s footprints circling round Greenhouse Three. He grinned when the dot in the Hospital Wing corridor, now labelled Aleksandar Romanoff moved away from the windows and was arrested by the dot labelled Poppy Pomfrey. He was still grinning when he looked up and caught his friends’ gazes.

James’ eyes were wide, the hazel deep and glowing behind the lenses; he wore his trademark lopsided grin. Sirius’ eyes too, were dark, the grey flecked with brilliant silver, and when he caught Remus’ eyes, his smile blossomed out like sunshine.

 

***

 

A knock on the door interrupted their happy musings, and Sirius and Remus had just enough time to clear away the countless scraps of parchment that littered the table before Tessie came in, holding a tray, and floating another before her. “Tea and biscuits for Little Sirs,” she squeaked.

“Thank you, Tessie,” Sirius said, his natural charm asserting itself as he relieved her of the burden. “They smell wonderful, and we are infinitely grateful.”

Tessie blushed. “Tessie is honoured to bake for Little Sirs. She knows they is liking blueberry tarts. And there is chocolate muffins for Master Remus. Tessie is hoping Master Remus is feeling better soon.”

Remus smiled at Tessie. “I’m much better, thank you,” he assured her. “And your scrumptious muffins will drive away what little sickness remains…”Tessie turned even redder at this, curtseyed so deeply her nose got tangled up in the pleats of the little sarong she wore, and vanished with a crack.

Sirius laughed, chucking a muffin at Remus with his left hand while he shoved an entire tart into his mouth with his right. “She’s gone off me and got the hots for you now, Moony. Looks like Dora and Mary have competition.”

James snickered when Remus’ cheeks glowed pink, but settled down when the heavenly mixture of blueberries and light pastry melted on his tongue.“I’ve always meant to ask,” Remus said around a mouthful of muffin, “but how come you have two house elves? Most pureblood families these days don’t even have one.”

“Ah, Tessie was the only one to start with. Tubby was with my old great-great-great aunt Veritabelle, and she didn’t have any immediate family to transfer his services to, when she died, so we took him in.” James lifted a shoulder in what he hoped was a nonchalant shrug. Magical domesticity was not high on the list of things he prioritized, but Muggleborns, and indeed, halfbloods such as Remus seemed to find it endlessly fascinating, so he tried to approach the subject as cautiously as he could. “Tessie and Tubby are cousins, actually – service traditions often go by families, you know – she was pretty happy when he came here.”

“You’re lucky they’re so nice,” Sirius said, lowering his teacup. “Not like that reprobate of a Kreacher… I don’t know how Reg can stand him, actually.”

“We have a garden brownie, too,” James cut in hastily, before Sirius could expound at length on Kreacher’s sins, “he lives in the greenhouse. Occasionally comes up to the rose garden when he fancies a change of air.”

“I’ve read about them, though I haven’t seen one,” Remus admitted. “What’s he like?”

“His name is Grumpy,” James said, choosing another tart. “For obvious reasons.”

Sirius barked out a laugh, then smoothed the map on the table again, well away from the tea trays. “Now, are we quite sure we’re done with this? Seems to me we should give it a snappy name, at least. And some form of protection – what if Snivellus ever gets hold of it?”

“Godric forbid.” James shuddered. “What can we do? Charm it to shoot fountains of cat piss at him if he tries to read it?”

“Too easily disabled. What about a hex that will automatically shampoo his hair for him every time he opens the parchment?”

“That’ll make the map soggy in no time, Padfoot,” Remus pointed out. “Words make the best impact with Snape, don’t they? So why don’t we charm it to insult him if he tampers with it?”

James couldn’t hold back his grin. “Brilliant idea, Moony. Suit the punishment to the crime, eh? Know any spells that will make it work?” He sighed when Remus looked blankly at him.

“Never mind,” Sirius said. “You’re the master brain behind this, Moony, so it’s your task to come up with something, and we’ll help you tweak it.”

“Bet Peter would know what to do,” James said, letting down the blinds with a flick of his wand. Dusk was falling, and the candles sprang to life automatically on the brackets on the tables and the mantelpiece. The flickering orange flames reminded him of Peter, who’d surely have had a brilliant, if unorthodox Divination-related solution for this quandary.

“Write and ask him if you want,” Sirius replied with a shrug, “but I think Remus will do better with this.”

Remus’ brow furrowed, the lines around his eyes deepening when he looked at Sirius. “You won’t be able to reach him just yet. He’s gone to Brighton for a week.”

“Popular Muggle beach resort, right?”

Remus chuckled. “Yes. His life’s like a Muggle novel when you think of it – he lives in Cheapside, he’s gone to Brighton… smacks of _Pride and Prejudice_ to me.”

“Let’s hope he doesn’t run off with some officer material, then.” Sirius said, pouring out his third cup of tea.

“Been dipping into Muggle fiction again, have you?” James asked, carefully hiding his grin. “I only hope Marlene appreciates all the hard work you’re doing. Not to mention all the other areas you’ve still got to improve on.” He laughed and dodged Sirius’ swipe.

“I’m doing just fine, thank you. I’ve got a book that Regulus gave me. Got lots of helpful hints.”

Remus choked on a bite of muffin. “Regulus is interested in er – the female persuasion?”

“Reggie isn’t interested in anyone yet, as far I know... he’s still little, though,” Sirius said. “He doesn’t really need the companionship either; he’s still got the teddy bear Uncle Alphard gave him for his fourth birthday.” He spun around and pointed a finger at James. “It’s you who’s having the problem, mate. Not turned up anything on this Erik yet?”

“It’s an evil person in a book. That’s all I know,” James muttered. The library had been unhelpful in his quest.

“It’s a character from The Phantom of the Opera,” Remus offered. “It’s historical, and it’s Muggle. If you’re genuinely interested, Lily might soften. You’re on your own there.” He shrugged, then winced. “What are interesting are all those labyrinthine caves and rooms under the opera house. Think of all the crimes, the robberies, the trysts... it’s ideal for another map – if I wasn’t so knackered.”

“The one we’re working on is quite enough for now,” James said decisively. “Are you sure it’s not too much work for you, Moony? Researching the insulting spells?”

Remus stared at the four chocolate muffins and three blueberry tarts on his lap. “I’ve got too much on my plate.”

“Literally or figuratively?”

“Ha ha, Padfoot. Your bright brain can figure that one out yourself.I’ll do this, but I’m at Alpine Hoffman camp next month. Might take time, and I’ll be off the radar for a while. If you don’t hear from me, let Peter take over.”

“I don’t know whether he’ll want to.” James was sure Peter would do a brilliant job, but Wormtail was already handling one delicate inquiry. “He’s busy pulling the wool over Professor Imago’s eyes.”

“He won’t figure out, will he,” Sirius asked uncomfortably, “that Peter’s lying? If he wants to see the empty sachet... no way in Godric’s smelly gumboot am I giving up my box.”

“It won’t come to that,” James told him. “Peter is a convincing liar. Besides, Professor Imago is working on that new book, and he’ll be too busy to pay much attention.” He looked at Remus, wishing for the umpteenth time that he could do something – _Merlin, why were they so powerless_ – to ease this burden from his friend’s shoulders. “Don’t worry about a thing here. Have a good time in Austria. There is a chance that this treatment could work, you know?”

“I’m so sorry, Moony,” Sirius added quietly. “I wish we could do something more. I know the Animagus transformations help – but there has to be something else, something even better” –

Remus smiled, eyes fixed on his friends, and held up a hand. “Ah, don’t worry. You’ve done more than enough. I’m not unhappy, you know. In fact,” he added, looking at the teapot, which made its way towards him on two spindly legs and poured a generous measure into his glass, “you could say my cup overflows.”


	18. Nux Memorica

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The group of men bent over the river, and emptied the bottles of potion into the water. It turned red where the liquid met it, fading to a slight pink, eddying as it spread out and down the gushing torrents.

The group of men bent over the river, and emptied the bottles of potion into the water. It turned red where the liquid met it, fading to a slight pink, eddying as it spread out and down the gushing torrents.

 “What – what is it?” Alabaster asked, voice cracking like glass on concrete.

Auror Potter sighed. “ _Nux Memorica_. The all-encompassing obliviation potion. No noticeable side effects. Potent and irreversible.”

 

***

 

“Missing since when?”

“The night of the fire, obviously.” Lily breathed in, willing her temper to stay below the surface. This information centre was organised by the Ministry of Magic – that was clear by the poorly dressed, mismatched gaggle of men and women walking around looking ill at ease. The witch who was taking her questions appeared to have made a decent effort, using a ball point pen to write her answers. She slipped up though, by letting the moving logo on her clipboard parchment be seen. Nice but dimwas Lily’s final verdict.

“Are you sure it was since the fire, dear? The witch asked. “Mightn’t she just have gone away on holiday?”

“No she hasn’t. I saw her only the morning before the fire! My aunt and uncle are still here. When we went to call them to evacuate, she had disappeared.”

“Very well... can you give me the particulars? Name, height, physical features...”

“Cassandra. Cassandra Beresford. She’s five foot four, or thereabouts.” Lily paused, hoping the tremor in her voice didn’t show. “She has red hair, like mine, and freckles on her nose and cheeks. She’s thin.” She laughed shakily. “She looked a lot like me, I suppose.”

“Thank you dear. We’ve noted down the details, and will be passing them along to the Bureau of Missing Persons as soon as we can” –

“Oh, her eyes are really unusual. You can easily identify her by that – they’re sort of greeny-hazel.”

The witch, evidently noticing the tearful undertones in Lily’s voice, leaned over and patted her hand. “There, there, dear. We’ll be doing all we can to locate everybody missing in the fire.” Her words could easily have been dismissed as meaningless platitudes, but they were strangely touching.

“What’s your name, dear?”

She watched the woman’s face change as she answered, guessing that she recognised Lily’s name from a Ministry list. “I’ve another missing friend,” she said suddenly, “Snape – Severus Snape. He’s a friend from school.”The pleasant veneer remained on the witch’s face, but cracks in the armour appeared–a sudden tightness around her lips, a faint twitch of an eyebrow. She scribbled on her clipboard, then led Lily along the river path to another desk just outside the Clinic tents.

Another witch peered at her over a pair of square spectacles. “Severus Snape you say, dear? Born in” –

“1960; he’s in my year at Hogwarts.”

“Ah, of course. Now, his mother has been marked safe, but she hasn’t reported him missing at all. The family aren’t worried, and that erases any grounds for complaint made by a third party.”

Lily scowled. Eileen Snape, who worked as a clerk at the local bank despite her magical abilities, seemed unbothered about Severus usually. Lily too, might have hardened her heart against him after their fight before the holidays – she knew he didn’t like to publicise their friendship after he got in with that abominable Slytherin set, but she’d never have dreamed that he would ever say such cruel things to her – but this was no ordinary fire, and worry stabbed unpleasantly in the pit of her stomach whenever his face sprang to mind. “All right,” Lily told the witch, “I’ll reserve my complaint, but if I don’t hear from him within the next three days, I’ll be owling the Ministry.” With a cool nod to the two witches, she ducked into the Clinic tent to look for her family.

The Ministry could have been more discreet in their design of the tent. Lily was greeted with a blast of cold air from a powerful Wind charm. An observant Muggle would quickly realise that there was no sign of a fan or an air conditioner, and this was certain to raise suspicion, as was the canvas skin of the tent itself, hovering unsupported a foot above the ground.

“Yes, I think so too.”

The voice was familiar. Lily spun around and came face to face with the young Auror who’d seen her to safety from the thick of the duel with the Death Eaters. Shaking his dark hair back from his eyes, he smiled at her. “Either you have unusually steady nerves, or my presence here isn’t unexpected.”

“I did think Aurors would be on hand, since this is a Ministry organised event.” She shrugged lightly, then smiled back. “Can you read minds, or was I talking out loud to myself again?”

“I can’t read minds as well as I would like to just yet. You weren’t thinking out loud either – though that’s a bit of information I’ll be filing away for later. No,” – he raised his left hand in a placatory gesture when she began to frown – “your face speaks volumes. And it’s quite simple to work out what someone might be thinking when they’re looking at one of the many obvious flaws in this poorly designed tent.”

“You have a low opinion of your workplace.”

“Ah, this is seditious talk,” the Auror said mildly, leaned comfortably against a bright purple box emblazoned in yellow with the words ‘Ministry Protocol Leaflets’, and put his hands in pockets. “They’ll cart me off to Azkaban for treason, and you, as the sole witness to my innocence, will have to come and bail me out. You fought well against the Death Eaters. How are your skills battling Dementors?”

“Non-existent,” Lily said dryly. “We haven’t learnt the Patronus charm yet.”

“Not to worry,” the Auror said cheerfully. “Auror Potter will probably release me after a bit of grief.”

“Auror Potter?  James’ father?”

“That is he. This isn’t our party, by the way. Oh, it’s DMLE all right, but Law Department – not the Aurors, and the Muggle Liaison Office, so we’re here in the capacity of guests.”

“Very reluctant ones too.”

The tent was bustling now, packed with wizards and Muggles of all sorts. A big banner at the opposite entrance proclaimed ‘Cokeworth Clinic and Information Counter’, with a faded watermark of the Ministry logo at one end of the sheet. The Muggles milling about the two information desks seemed to find nothing odd about the set up, but those in their own Clinic tent and the two adjoining huts were eyeing the bright green dress coats of the Healers and Mediwitches and Mediwizards disbelievingly. Her parents and sister were partly visible among the throng. Several Aurors were mingling with the crowds – mostly dressed in unassuming shades of grey or brown – and all looking unhappy. A few feet to their left, James’ father was conversing with two young Aurors. He had his back to her, but the crow’s nest of black hair and jaunty set of the shoulders were unmistakable.

“Security and crowd control fall to us. I was rather hoping you’d turn up, but I didn’t think you would,” the Auror said.

“The letter said attendance was mandatory, because they’d be taking a census. It was signed by our Town Council, but since I’ve never known them to use parchment from Flourish and Blotts, or spatter-proof emerald ink, it was easy to work out who sent it.” Lily ducked as a paper memo hurtled inches over her head and landed on a medicine cart. “Besides, I was curious. My parents were interested too – and my sister, however hard she tries to conceal it.”

Whipping his head up, the Auror stared at her, a slightly wary look in his eyes. “Your family is here as well?”

Immediately urgency and alarm began to writhe like snakes inside Lily. “What’s wrong?”

The Auror leaned over, brown eyes tired. “How much you do remember about the day of the fire, Lily?”

She didn’t ask how he knew her name. “There is nothing I don’t remember,” she said quietly. His question was enough to set her head and eyes aching with the searing heat of the flames and the fireballs, her ears ringing with the terrified shouts of the hostages.

The young Auror exhaled, eyes losing some of their darkness. “Have you spoken to your family since you came here? Can they recall it as well as you can?”

“There’s something serious going on, isn’t there… look, I don’t even know your name” –

“Rajinda De Sousa. Rajinda will do, unless it’s official business.” He gave her hand a cursory shake. “This camp is… officially… a collaboration between the Wizarding and Muggle ministries” –

“But unofficially” –

Rajinda bent down, and with more gentleness than she expected an Auror to possess, picked up a minute ladybird from the grass. His eye caught hers, a sudden warning flash of sharp brown. “This place is infested with bugs.” Turning slightly, with a movement so subtle she could barely discern it, he blocked their view from the crowds.

She leaned forward to catch his next words: “They have ears so sensitive they pick up noises several miles away.” Rajinda raised an eyebrow. “They spread diseases too, a symptom of which can be – ah, _forgetfulness._ ”

The snakes in Lily’s middle began to wriggle faster. “No – you can’t mean” –

Rajinda’s fingers crushed his wand in his fist. “Amnesia spreads easily. It even contaminates the waterways – and thereby your drinking water, liquids – even medicines – with lasting effects.”

Lily couldn’t mistake his meaning. Wrath burned her lungs like ice. With three quick strides, she covered the ground between her and Petunia, shoving a squat witch in bright pink robes so hard she nearly went flying, and pushed away the Healer who was chatting to her sister, with enough vigour to send her sprawling over the medicine cart.

“DON’T DRINK THAT!”

The shout was loud and sudden enough to stay the goblet inches from Petunia’s mouth. Her sister stared at her with shocked and uncomprehending eyes.

“Don’t drink it, Tuney,” Lily repeated urgently. She snatched the goblet away and sniffed it, nose crinkling with disgust when she recognised the tell-tale odours of hemlock and wormwood, strong enough to disguise the subtler, dangerous hints of foxglove underneath.

“What…”

“It’s a Forgetfulness potion.” She held the goblet gingerly by two fingers. “ _Evanesco!_ You didn’t drink it, did you?”

Tuney’s mouth worked soundlessly as she sought to gather her wits, but once she collected them all, she turned a turned a most alarming shade of puce, and Lily stepped hurriedly away from her.

“I was just about to drink it. They told me it was burn balm!”

“Balm isn’t to be drunk, silly.”

“I couldn’t know, could I, with _your_ lot. Everything is upside down in your world. What does this – this potion – do anyway?”

Lily rolled her eyes. Petunia might affect to despise the whole magical world, but curiosity would not allow her to turn up her nose at it all together.  “It makes you forget everything. By the time you’d drunk up the entire cup, you wouldn’t even be able to remember you once lived in this town, let alone any of the details about the fire.”

“That’s terrible.” Tuney blinked, then pulled herself up to her full height, patches of red blossoming in her cheeks. “But maybe it’s the usual way with your lot.”

“I had no hand in this.” Lily’s fingers involuntarily curled into a fist, and she didn’t stop herself from tugging at her sister’s collar with her other hand. “Don’t you dare say this is my fault! I had no idea till Raj – this – Auror told me what was going on.”

Abruptly, she released her hold on Tuney and looked down at the Healer, who was being helped up by Rajinda. He had his wand clutched in his hand, and what he’d just being doing was all too obvious by her slightly dazed expression, and the way her eyes struggled to focus.

“Can I help you dear?” The Healer asked. That was clearly their stock question.

It was all she could do not to punch the creature in the face. Rajinda’s hand descended on her shoulder, the slight weight sending a grateful warmth through her skin. “I’m looking for my parents,” she said sharply, then found Tuney’s hand as the witch, still smiling bemusedly, waved their parents over.

Please, please, let them remember.

“Mummy,” Lily said quietly so that none outside their group would overhear, “can you remember the day of the fire?”

Mummy’s brows crinkled, but it was Daddy who answered, ignoring the way his daughters stiffened, and Rajinda’s sharp intake of breath at his reply: “what fire, dear?”

 

***

 

Charlus adjusted his spectacles and tried to look properly severe. “Next time, son, make sure Umbridge is _not_ looking over your shoulder when you decide to Confund St Mungo’s officials.”

De Sousa frowned up at Charlus. “She wasn’t within earshot, Sir. And Lily had knocked the wind out of her sails anyway – she shouldn’t have been up so fast!”

“It was an idiotic thing to do,” Cavendish told De Sousa, voice touched with his usual sharpness, “even more foolhardy than your usual shenanigans.”

“Would you rather I allowed Lily to be arrested for assault?”

“It’s landed _you_ in a cell instead.”

“Better me, than some innocent little girl” –

“She could have got off with an underage warning. You, on the other hand, are in line for suspension.” Cavendish – who’d volunteered for guard duty – curled his hand around the bars of the holding cell, gripping the metal so tightly his flesh turned white. “We’re already short staffed as it is. With you gone, I’ll have double the workload.”

“I knew it!” De Sousa howled, and jabbed a finger in the other boy’s direction. “Your concern for me is a just a front for saving your own skinny arse!”

Cavendish spluttered. “My arse is not – never mind! Do you for one moment think I’d waste even a moment’s worry over a hopeless case like you?”

“Enough, you two,” Charlus broke in. He was inclined to let the boys banter to their heart’s content, but footsteps were coming down the corridor, and the last thing he wanted was for Yaxley, Nott, or anyone else in the Law Department to detain any more of his staff, even on so simple a charge as inappropriate language on Ministry premises. De Sousa would face suspension for interfering with Ministry procedures – Charlus, as Head of the Auror Department, had a say in the severity of the punishment, and had exerted his authority to ensure a lighter sentence than would otherwise have been passed.

Yaxley and Nott came into view, both clutching scrolls of parchment emblazoned with the Ministry seal. Charlus raised an eyebrow. “Well?”

“Three weeks’ suspension, effective immediately.” Yaxley scowled at De Sousa, then glared at Charlus. “A disciplinary report has been filed, and any further infractions will see him discharged from Auror Service immediately.”

Charlus glared right back, wishing his eyes could burn holes in the other man’s face. “As his immediate superior, I am the only one qualified to take that decision.”

Nott sniffed. “Madam Umbridge has put in a special request with the Minister. It would be a grave mistake to cross the Head of the Improper Use of Magic. You can release the prisoner now,” he added stiffly to Cavendish, who grinned, opened the door, and hauled De Sousa out by the collar.

“It would have been a graver mistake to let Lily face the wrath of Umbridge, though, Sir,” De Sousa said to Charlus, when they were back in their office, and he was busy clearing out his desk. “Maybe I should have Confunded that Toad-face, and Yaxley too, just to be on the safe side.”

Thaddeus Corner, who’d dropped in to speak to Charlus, raised an eyebrow, then supressed a smirk. “That would have been fun to watch. Umbridge is just a simpering load of old bollocks, but Yaxley is sharp. He was the best duellist in our House, all those years ago.”

De Sousa blinked, arrested in the act of lobbing a half-finished doughnut into the dustbin. “You were a Slytherin, Mr Corner?”

“Yaxley was a Ravenclaw.”

“Surprising. From what I’ve heard about your Hogwarts Houses, a slippery customer like that would surely have been a Slytherin… maybe Confunding isn’t right for him then. Should’ve Obliviated him and given him a taste of his own medicine.”

“You’re incorrigible.” Cavendish walked the two steps from his own desk, and scowled at De Sousa. “Confunding them is the easy part. But you’re not a bit repentant about the repercussions for the rest of us, are you?”

“Not a bit,” De Sousa told his friend cheerfully, taking down a Muggle sports poster from the wall, and stuffing it into his bat alongside a broken Sneakoscope. But then he turned to face Charlus, and for the first time, the shadow of uncertainty darkened the brown irises of the boy’s eyes. “You… you aren’t angry about this, are you Sir?”

“I’m not angry about the Confunding,” Charlus said gently. “I can understand only too well the provocation you had to do such a thing. I’m also proud of you for not wanting to drag Lily Evans’ name through the mud. She’s a spirited little thing, there’s no doubt about that.”

He swallowed, thinking of the first time he’d seen her in the battle, red hair flying out like flames, green eyes spitting sparks of hurt and anger, and of James, and the glorified expression in his eyes when he’d looked at her, and of the sudden revelation that had burst on him like sunshine that morning when he sat with Dorea on the couch. “Your generation is passionate all together, and I like it, but you must control yourselves better.” He laid down the parcel Thaddeus handed him, and patted De Sousa on the arm as the boy heaved his satchel over his shoulder. “Lily could have faced suspension from Hogwarts, or time in Ministry cells if Umbridge had known she was involved. And you – you’re an asset to this Department, and don’t you dare do anything more to jeopardise your position here.”

Charlus stopped, expecting a flippant reply, but turned round, surprised, when he met with an uncharacteristic silence. De Sousa was standing, travelling coat over his arm, face flushed with shame. “I’m sorry, Sir,” he offered meekly.

“Don’t worry about it,” Charlus said briefly. He motioned to Cavendish. “Escort this reprobate out, and make sure he doesn’t Confund anyone else – until he gets home at least.”

“Small mercies,” said Thaddeus, tightening his dark ponytail as the door clanged shut behind the two young men. “We can be thankful he isn’t left to cool his heels in Azkaban.”

“Indeed. He’ll be back in three weeks, no worse for wear.”

“What happened to your usual man – Frank Longbottom? Place is quiet without him.”

“I can’t imagine why,” Charlus answered dryly, “De Sousa makes enough noise for all of us. Frank will be back next week – a slight case of smoke inhalation after the fire. I’d have called him back sooner, but I doubt Augusta will let him go just yet. We need him – what with De Sousa gone, and Alastor running off back to Peru yesterday.”

“It must have made him very angry, the Minister’s decision to side with Umbridge and Yaxley on the Obliviation camp. I would have expected Umbridge to favour slightly more... obvious methods.”

“Anger just isn’t the word, Thaddeus. Alastor literally had smoke coming out of his ears – though that could be the Pepper-Up Alabaster popped into his Pumpkin Juice. Umbridge is a sadist, but Yaxley isn’t. This has his stamp all over it. _NuxMemorica_ ” – the bitterness would insist on welling up, however much Charlus tried to suppress it – “nobody’s thought of the old potion for a century at least.”

“Yaxley is thorough all right,” Thaddeus agreed. “Contaminating the only waterway would ensure it finds its way into bloodstreams of all the residents, and that puts an end to it.”

“And if a few have moved away, what of it? No other Muggles are likely to believe their tall tales of a fire that contorts and intensifies with every attempt to get it under control. No, I don’t blame De Sousa at all. Even Frank and Cavendish were fuming, though they didn’t show it quite so much... or take such drastic measures to remedy it. What a twenty four hours it’s been.” He sighed and mopped his brow.

“Ah well, I’ve got something that might cheer you up.” Thaddeus reached for the parcel Charlus had deposited on the desk, and drew out a large, thick sheet of parchment, and levitated it in front of them. It had fine green lines running all over it. “This is the ambient magic found at Grimmauld Place,” said Thaddeus, tracing the contour lines, “rather a musty green, because, while not strictly evil, it’s still extremely heavy magic. Now these” – he tapped a group of bright crimson and gold lines in the middle – “is the core of Sirius’ magical imprint. It’s strong in the centre, but towards the outskirts it intersects with these black lines” –

“That where Bellatrix attacked him.” The gold lines were new though; when Charlus extracted the imprint from Sirius’ foot, the magic had been solely crimson.

“Precisely. It gets much lighter as his strength fades, and then again just here, to the right, there’s another attack.”

“Rodolphus,” Charlus muttered. His magic was dark blue, and blotted in places, unlike the sharp focus of Bellatrix’s.

“Lestrange’s imprint is inconsistent,” Thaddeus confirmed. “Something in his mind or body is interfering with the outcome of his magic. But what is of remarkable interest is the brightness that Sirius’ stamp regains right on the outer border, just before he escaped the room. You can see it’s not as luminous as earlier, but there’s a powerful surge to the left, when he charged Bellatrix; her imprint is skewed.”

“He ran at her, and chucked her wand into the fire.” The corresponding crimson and gold lines were certainly brighter, bulging out slightly. “McKinnon guessed at a healing catalyst, but one of this calibre is certainly extraordinary.”

“There’s none I know of, that could make such an impact, or even smoothen out the lines so quickly,” Thaddeus said dubiously.

“This is remarkable bit of work anyhow. Didn’t expect to understand the map so easily.”

“It’s based on a Muggle contour map,” Thaddeus said proudly.  We’re still fine-tuning the extraction process from the imprints, but the representation of the data works better than I’d hoped. You can pitch this to whoever is in charge of the case. I’ll send in an owl explaining the mechanism.”

“That’ll be Crouch,” Charlus said, frowning absently at Alabaster’s poster of a Crup puppy, who was growling at the MimbulusMimbletonia on Frank’s desk, “and I’ll look up healing catalysts as well as anything else that might have an effect on the imprint. That might give us a sharper edge on this guardianship case.”

 

***

 

When Charlus emerged from the depths of the Ministry Library three hours later, carrying a disappointingly thin stack of books beneath his arm and a massive headache behind his eyes, the first person he bumped into was Regulus Black.

The boy bore such an uncanny resemblance to his brother that Charlus lost his breath. Although several inches shorter, he had the same marmoreal features, upturned nose, straight hair, and determined chin. The Black family men had a family resemblance of course, but here, the connection ran much, much deeper.

“Mr Potter.” The voice was thin; sharp and brittle, yet shared an underlying jaggedness with Sirius’ tones; the eyes focused on a point two feet above Charlus’ head, on the crest of a Phoenix over the Library door.

“Regulus. Are you here alone?”

“I came with Father. He is upstairs conducting business with the Law Department.” Guardianship business, no doubt. Possibly Regulus was not supposed to have any idea what these transactions entailed. Probably he knew exactly what they were. He was hugging a thick book to his chest: _Family Trees, Fraternal Vines._

Sharp eyes probed the volumes under his own arm, so Charlus turned them over subtly, hiding the lettering of _Magical Imprints and their Fifty-Two Typecasts_ with his lapels. “Did you find anything to pique your interest?”

Regulus shrugged, seemingly uninterested, and moved his gaze to the charmed window which was raining mightily at the moment. “Adequately profitable, insufficiently pleasurable.” He hesitated a moment, then asked, “will you... can you give Sirius a message?”

“Of course.”

“Tell him... tell him, the tree has mended itself.”

“The tree has mended itself? Is that it? There’s nothing more?”

Regulus bowed his head. “That is all.”

The dismissal was clear, but Charlus had not moved two steps when he stopped and looked back. The boy was still out of the window, a hunched, forlorn figure wrapped in a thick black cloak. “Regulus” – Charlus swallowed, and tried again: “Regulus, are you happy?”

For the first time, Regulus turned and looked at him, and the emptiness in those grey eyes was startling. “Is Sirius happy?” He asked.

Charlus thought of Sirius’ arrival, of the Cleaving curse, and the nightmares that had followed the fire. And he thought of the laughter and sunshine that filled the halls of Potter Manor, of Tessie’s ever-frequent baking, and fireworks in the summerhouse. “Sirius is happy,” he said at last.

Regulus smiled, and the shadows vanished. “I am happy,” he said simply, and walked away.


	19. Nightmares, Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alek had never had much use for sick rooms, not even when he’d come down with Snarguluff pox years ago, when his father’s large house out on the outskirts of Sofia had still been standing.

The Hospital Wing was, without doubt, the most boring place on earth. Alek had never had much use for sick rooms, not even when he’d come down with Snarguluff pox years ago, when his father’s large house out on the outskirts of Sofia had still been standing. He wrinkled his nose and picked at some lint on the pristine white pillowcase – not that he didn’t like white, but this particular shade hurt his eyes; it was so stark – and tried to recall those days back home. His own home. The gardens, with their light green lawns and profusion of yellow summer flowers, his nursery with the blue-painted cot and later on, his own room where Father had allowed him to string a hammock instead of a regular bed…

He couldn’t.

The memories were painted monochrome, soft and blurred around the edges, just the way the faces of Father, Mother, Carina and Halina were always out of focus in his dreams. There was something – he didn’t know what – not quite right about the lines around their mouths, or that strange and unearthly light in their eyes, and try as he might, hands stretching out as far as he could, he never could touch them, could not feel warm skin against his own, could not run his fingers through their hair.

They always swam tantalizingly out of his reach.

It was maddening and disappointing, not to say exhausting, to find himself awakening, again and again each morning, drenched in sweat, heart pumping like a piston, hands clenched around the sheets so hard it brought to his nails a startling whiteness.

But he still had Nik.

If he had Nik at all, that was. More than a month had passed since his frantic letter to his brother, and a little more than ten days since the reply had arrived. Alek flipped over onto his stomach, withdrew the crumpled the piece of parchment from under his pillow, and smoothed it out.

_Am travelling. Will arrive soon. Stay calm, take medicine correct times._

Not a proper letter, really. This was like those Muggle lelegram things they used during emergencies. But how soon was ‘soon’, and where was Nik travelling? Alek was almost well enough to home – wherever home might be – and he was sure the Headmaster allowed him to stay here through the summer out of pity.

Madam Pomfrey was only too happy to have him under her care, though. He liked her – she was solid and bustling and competent, always ready with food and medicines and chocolate, as had Mother been – but she fussed so. There were many things he could have been doing – the grounds and the castle to explore, the broom sheds to break into, Hagrid to visit and his pets to play with – but Madam Pomfrey wouldn’t let him stir an inch outside the Hospital Wing door.

She’d muttered something about ‘protiscol’ and ‘neglidigence,’ fine large words which Alek wrote down in his diary and whispered to himself before dropping off to sleep, but she hadn’t given him any more freedom after that inquiry either.

But all that changed on the last night of July.

It was a sweltering night, oppressive in its stillness; the sudden spate of summer thunderstorms had abated. His sheets were drenched in sweat, and his head ached violently. He was just about to get up and pad over to Madam Pomfrey’s room for a Vanishing-Head potion when the torches flickered to life outside the Hospital Wing doors. Thunderous footsteps sounded down the corridors.

Alek stood up very straight, very suddenly, then lay back down again, and pulled his discarded blanket over his head.

There were two steps of footsteps; one short and hurried, with a catch in it as though slipping now and then, the other was measured and unhurried, the gait longer, because it sounded less often than the other.

“Come on, Albus, quickly!”

A scraping sound, and then a dull thud near the door, as though some heavy burden had been dropped onto a bed.

“Best wake Poppy” –

That was Professor Dumbledore – and the other voice was Professor McGonagall. Alek unclosed one eye very slightly, and peeped over the hem of his blanket. McGonagall was in an ugly tartan dressing gown, and Dumbledore was in star-spangled emerald robes. Dumbledore made his way towards Madam Pomfrey’s room, but he arrested his steps when a click sounded, and the door swung back on its hinges to reveal Madam Pomfrey.

“Who is it this time?” She asked, but the question was rhetorical; she followed Dumbledore to the bed where presumably, the patient lay.

A second’s silence, then a sudden, sharp intake of breath. “McKinnon,” Pomfrey murmured. Her tones were soft but clear, and carried over to where Alek lay. He opened his other eye too, and lowered the blanket another couple of inches.

“What’s happened to him this time?” A familiar blue light weaving around told Alek that Madam Pomfrey was casting Diagnostics.

“Cursed, we think.” Professor McGonagall’s tones were more strained than he’d ever heard. “His robes are wet too. They smell of sea spray. He’s been on the coast somewhere – somewhere savage, not close by. Probably not Scotland.”

“Headmaster, I do wish you’d stop sending out these innocent boys on ridiculous wild goose chases!”

“He is a Healer, Poppy,” Dumbledore said heavily, “and a highly accomplished wizard.”

“Well, he certainly didn’t see this coming,” Madam Pomfrey snapped, now busy with what seemed to be a tub of foul-smelling paste. “A bad stinging curse to the chest, and a softer end of a twisting curse to the legs. Minor burns to the skin.”

“He’s been cursed and set on fire? Rather sadistic, even for Death Eaters.”

“Probably Jugson. He always did have a way with arson,” Madam Pomfrey said dryly, now rubbing liniment on the man’s toes. “And maybe he had to walk through a burning building to get here, Minerva. If he’d been deliberately targeted, the burns would be much worse.”

The ensuing silence was only broken by the stertorous breathing of the patient. Alek wriggled his toes into grooves in his sheets, and watched the adults carefully. At last, Professor McGonagall broke the silence. “How long before he wakes?”

“A few minutes at most. He’s not too badly injured, though the shock and mental fatigue will need time to fade.” Madam Pomfrey swung round on Dumbledore, and actually deigned to shake a finger under his nose. “And next time you send off someone like this, knowing full well they’ll end up here, think about my other patients, please! I have others recovering from trauma and Dark injuries, in the most delicate state of health” –

“You have one other patient, Poppy” –

“An eleven year old boy” –

“I’m ALMOST TWELVE,” Alek declared loudly, emerging completely from his blankets with an indignant bounce. This was a Very Important Fact, and everybody should know it. There was a world of difference between merely eleven, and almost twelve. He stared defiantly at Dumbledore, whose beard was twitching, at McGonagall, whose eyebrows were twitching, at Madam Pomfrey, who was looking exasperated, and at the man on the bed, who –

Oh.

“Awake now, are you, Mr McKinnon?”

McKinnon stared at Alek out of brown eyes that pierced him despite being cloudy with pain, which slid to Madam Pomfrey at the sound of her voice. “Yeah,” he murmured.

Dumbledore’s eyes were suddenly sharp. He sat down on the end of the bed, and bent over the man. “Can you tell us what happened, Dougal?”

“Cursed… caught from behind.”

“Who was it?”

“Gibbon,” McKinnon whispered. His tones were hoarse, broken. “Jugson.” Madam Pomfrey and Professor McGonagall exchanged looks. “I knew…. But didn’t expect… just there.”

Alek held his breath in spite of himself. Professor Dumbledore laid a hand on McKinnon’s shoulder. “Where were you?”

“Helston. St Anthony... library. They… they caught me running” – he broke off in a spasm of coughs. He gripped Dumbledore’s robes with a shaking fist. “C – Cornwall’s next…”

“Did you know they were coming?”

“Got told…”

“Who told you? How?”

“Em…” His voice broke on the word, a shudder ripping through his body. “Em…” – his voice trailed off into silence, and his eyes slid shut.

 

*******

 

The next three days were both interesting and agonizing. Alek watched Madam Pomfrey tending to Dougal McKinnon, and learned quite a lot about Healing in the process. By the third day, McKinnon was much better, and Madam Pomfrey actually let Alek hold the tubs of liniment, balm, and paste as she slathered them liberally over all parts of the man’s body. Alek still wasn’t allowed outside, but once McKinnon had been medicated, Alek sat by his bedside and watched him rest, or fade away into slumber. Sometimes, Alek fell asleep too, head falling uncomfortably into the other man’s sheets.

It was when Alek woke up from one of these impromptu naps that he noticed McKinnon staring at him. His gaze was even more direct than it had been the night he’d been brought in.

Alek hastily wiped away a bit of drool from the corner of his lips.

“Hullo,” said McKinnon.

“Hullo,” said Alek.

“Hullo,” said McKinnon – again.

“Hullo, said Alek, wondering how long this exchange of greetings would last.

Luckily, McKinnon decided to vary the order of responses just then, by asking “whassa date?” instead.

“Erm – the fourth of August.”

McKinnon groaned slightly, and heaved himself upright on his pillow. “I’ve been out of it for four whole days?”

“Three and a half,” Alek corrected. “Would like me to call Madam Pomfrey?”

“Not just yet.” McKinnon coughed, and put out a hand for the glass of water that stood on his bedside table. “Need to clear my head a bit before the Spanish Inquisition comes in.”

“I don’t think Madam Pomfrey is Spanish,” Alek told him.

McKinnon choked on his sip of water, then subjected Alek to that honest stare again. “You’re a literal piece of goods, aren’t you?” He asked at last. “Who are you, kiddo?”

Alek wrinkled his nose. What sort of question was that? “I’m me,” he answered, simply.

“No you aren’t,” McKinnon replied decidedly. “I am me, and if that’s the case, you can’t be me also. So the question still remains: who are you?”

Alek stared.

The corners of McKinnon’s mouth twitched. “Not a Ravenclaw, this one,” he muttered under his breath. “I meant,” he continued louder, “what’s your name? And you might as well tag your House along to that.”

“I’m Aleksandar Romanoff,” Alek replied. “Hufflepuff,” he added proudly.

“Ah. Could’ve guessed. Ravenclaw to you,” McKinnon added. “Believe it or not. Name of Dougal McKinnon.” He stuck out a hand, and they shook solemnly. It was rather thrilling, like the initiation ceremonies he’d read about in the Muggle adventure books his friends lent him, minus all the blood and midnight graveyards, of course.

“Shall I call Madam Pomfrey now, Mr McKinnon?” Alek asked after a suitable pause.

McKinnon groaned. “I’ll tell you when I want her. And since it’s likely I’ll be stuck here for quite a few days, you might as well start calling me Dougal – or Doug, if that’s less of a mouthful.”

“Dog?” Alek tried tentatively. It didn’t sound out quite as he would have liked.

Doug rolled his eyes, but faint smile lines appeared at their ends. “No – try again.”

“Dug?”

Doug leaned back down with a smirk. “Close enough.”

“We can Floo your parents, if you’d like to call them instead of Madam Pomfrey,” Alek offered.

Doug turned his head to meet Alek’s gaze, and perhaps it was a trick of the sunlight pouring in through the windows –though Alek didn’t think so – the brown is his eyes had suddenly grown darker, heavier, as though it was weighed down by a gigantic anchor. “My parents aren’t here, kiddo,” Doug said, very quietly. “They’re dead.”

Oh.

“Mine too,” Alek blurted out suddenly. He turned away to hide the tears that threatened to spill over.

“I’m sorry,” Doug said softly. When Alek looked around, Doug was staring into the fireplace. He made no mention of the wet tracks that still glittered on the younger boy’s cheeks, despite the hasty application of a handkerchief. When Doug spoke again, his voice cracked. “They were killed by Dark Wizards. Dad was an Auror, and Mum was a Healer like me.”

It was unusual to discuss such intimate personal details with someone you’d only known for three and a half days – and who’d been unconscious for much of that time anyway – but Doug had a no-nonsense, comfortable way with him, and Alek felt secure conversing with him. “Mine died in a fire. That was Dark Wizards too. They set ablaze our whole town. Everybody died – my parents and sisters and aunts and uncles and all. My brother did escape because he’s really clever, but he said he was coming to get me, but he hasn’t come yet.”

“Did – did it happen while you were here, at school? Is that why you’re here over the holidays?”

“In May. I – I didn’t know till I got a letter from my brother. But he couldn’t come then because he was hurt. Then I got hurt too – my nose was cursed.”

This commanded the attention of Dougal, who sat up suddenly, then winced. “Your nose?” he asked, in some surprise. “That’s an unusual spot for a curse unless you’re aiming to interfere with their breathing specifically.” He stretched out an arm, without permission, and touched a tiny bulge on the side of Alek’s nose. His fingers were calloused, but gentle and dry, so Alek didn’t move away. “The residue still lingers,” Doug murmured. “Bit tender round there, still?”

Alek nodded. “Madam Pomfrey said it’ll take a bit of time to go away.”

“Who did it, and how?” Doug’s questions, like his gaze, was honest and direct, something Alek appreciated. It reminded him of his brother.

“Some Slytherins. They attacked me and my friend when we were walking in the grounds before dinner. We should’ve heard them coming,” Alek admitted, “but we were talking too loud, I guess. Some of the Slytherins in our year told us these big ones weren’t no good – but it’s hard to keep track of ’em all the time.”

“Not entirely your fault,” Doug acknowledged. “You don’t really expect to get attacked in a school… what was the curse, were you aware enough to note it?”

“Something called a _sistemsectra_ – I think. It hurt a lot, and there was a lot of blood. There were four of them, though only two attacked us. The other two didn’t try to stop them, though. But then there were four Gryffindors who ran up and chased them off.”

“That was a bit of good luck,” Doug agreed. “But these Gryffindors tend to be quite fond of rushing in and saving people’s ars – I mean, posteriors, don’t they? My sister is a Gryffindor, and she’s always bringing home some Kneazle kitten or Crup puppy or other.”

But Gryffindor enthusiasm had served Alek well that day. “The one who saved me was called Padsfeet,” he remembered suddenly. “The others called him Padsfeet – or something that sounded like that. And the one who brought me here was called Moony. I’ve seen ’em around, but I didn’t know their names till then.”

Dougal whipped his head around so suddenly he grunted and rubbed his neck. “Padsfeet, did you say? Could it have been Padfoot?”

“Yes! Yes – that was it!” Alek looked at Doug, who was smiling, with the light of mischief shining brightly in his eyes.

“Aye, this is grand. Wait till Marly hears this one.”

“What are you going to do?”

Doug’s smile blossomed into a full on grin. “Blackmail.”

Alek couldn’t help staring. “But they’ll take you to prison!”

“Not for this type of blackmail, they won’t. Right, that reminds me – I have to write to my sister and my little brother, not to mention several of my patients who are awaiting my Healing attentions.” Doug tried to sit up completely, but moaned in pain when his twisted leg caught in the tangled sheets. “Okay, kiddo, you can call Madam Pomfrey now…”

 

*******

Disappointment was not the feeling Severus would have wished to experience on this, his first assignment for the Death Eaters. Their initial attempt two days ago had been foiled by an unexpected wanderer, and that had killed any budding excitement he felt. Despite the obvious elation of his companions – Bellatrix to his left, mouth stretched wide in an evil grin, Jugson and Gibbon, smiling brutishly, Pontinius, rocking back and forth on his heels, the two Rosier brothers, composed and inscrutable as usual – Severus could feel nothing but the weight of the large rock that obstructed his breathing. The fire was minuscule in comparison to that at Cokeworth, but it was enough for this task.

Severus’ mouth turned down as he stared at the flames licking their way through the thick bundles of parchment, yellowed with age. Books should not be burnt, even ones as ancient and obscure as these.

He ignored the damp on his sleeves and the hem of his robes, and suppressed a gag when dust and smoke rose up in clouds from the inferno, and mixed with the spray from the Cornish sea.


	20. Nightmares, Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There were five rooms along the corridor, doors open, pools of yellow light spilling into the darkened hallway. He paused. These were not the rooms he wanted. No, there were two further rooms, tucked away, beyond the last turn, out of sight.

He was walking.

The walls were as they’d always been; rough-hewn, solid, unyielding. The lamps on the landing flickered to life as he passed, the yellow flames dancing over his face, assaulting his eyes.

He began to climb the final flight of stairs. Dust whirled in tiny clouds under his sole.

The walls began to close in on him – they always did – and he quickened his pace, desperate to avoid the sickening crunch of stone on flesh that was sure to follow. With a last mighty heave, a longer step, he set foot on floor, on brocade carpet.

Unusually, all was silent.

There were five rooms along the corridor, doors open, pools of yellow light spilling into the darkened hallway. He paused. These were not the rooms he wanted. No, there were two further rooms, tucked away, beyond the last turn, out of sight.

Reaching out a hand, stretching out his fingertips, he walked.

Three, four steps had him clear of the turn in the corridor, and at last, sunlight poured in through the window at the end of the passage and lit his way. The two doors nearest this window; one on the left, one on the right. The door on the right was locked; bolted inside and out.

The door on the left was ajar.

He touched the heavy wood. The grain was coarse beneath his outstretched fingers, the elf-made varnish peeling in long thin strips from lintel to jamb. A thick silver chain, three strands twisting together, rendering it rope-like in formation, hung across the breadth of the wood, from hinge to lock.

And above this restraint was a sign, a paper board on which curled letters, painstakingly cut through with magic. A dainty, sloping hand:

_Do not enter without the express permission of Regulus Arcturus Black._

And then it came, from beyond the door, the sound he’d been anticipating, but hoping, praying, not to hear. A whimper, soft and drawn-out, rough around the edges, twisted unwillingly from a parched throat.

One word: a name.

His name.

_Permission granted._

He opened the door, slipping the chain from its fastening, and stepped inside.

Regulus was where he always was; on the bed, and the chains that bound his wrists were of the same silver as the door latch outside, but made only of two intertwined strands. Each ended in the head of a minute silver serpent, forked tongue out-thrust, biting into the flesh they held imprisoned.

He eyes stayed fixed on the red indents on his brother’s wrists.

Regulus was clothed in a dark robe, a single garment that swathed him like a shroud from head to toe. And slowly, he looked up. The hood slipped down and lay upon his shoulders.

Those grey eyes were full of tears. “Sirius,” his brother whispered brokenly. “Sirius…”

He started forward. “Reg – Reg” –

“You left me, Sirius.”

“No…no I didn’t!”

“You left me here…with Bellatrix. The Dark Lord will come for me, Sirius.”

“No, Reg, I’m here now” –

“What’s the use? You left me and went…and now it’s too late.” The voice was dry, cracked. A tear rolled down the pale cheek, glimmering like a pearl when it came to rest on the robe.

“It’s not too late…I swear. I’m here now…I’ll take you with me.” He tried to move forward, but found he could not. He was bound to the floor by some invisible adhesive. Instead he reached out as far as he could.

His brother’s hands moved out towards his own, a swift, convulsive movement, chaffing against their bonds. The skin split – drops of blood trickled over the rope and spattered the floor below.

“Reggie!” He tugged at his invisible restraints, straining to reach the bed, but they were immoveable.

And then the door behind him opened again.

“He is right, is he not, Sirius?”

He tried to twist around, to face the newcomer, but was still rooted to the spot.

 “You do not care about him…at all.”

“No…no, that’s not true, Father.”

“But yes,” Father said, and he sounded amused. “This room makes a convenient prison, does it not, Regulus?”

“Reggie… I – I’m so sorry. Please forgive me. You…you have to. I came now…I came to take you away.”

“I do not think so, Sirius,” Father said. “There is no going back now.”

“No, no, there is! I’m sorry…I’m sorry!”

 “Look – his hands are already bound. A gag is the next logical step, would you not agree?” Steps sounded behind him; Father was moving forward.

Regulus whimpered.

Father came around him, silken gag in hand. “Would you like to do it yourself, Sirius? Would you like to tie up that pretty little mouth yourself?”

A shaft of sunlight broke through the layering of dust on the tiny window. It fell upon the blood still dripping from his brother’s wrists onto the floor, turning it a luminous, incongruous orange. Regulus gulped, his lower lip trembling.

And then, for the first time, anger began to boil inside him – a hot, white, all-consuming rage.

With a tremendous heave that tore away splinters from the panelled floor, he freed one leg, and twisted around and leapt at Father.

Father slipped on the smattering of blood, lost his footing and fell against the bed.

In two strides he hovered over the man. He reached for the upturned face, pushing interfering strands of hair away impatiently, doubling up his fist for a right hook to the nose…

…and stared with mounting horror into identical grey eyes.

_His eyes._

And then the world crumpled.

He screamed…

 

_***_

 

…and screamed, fell out of bed and rolled off the rug laid at its foot, and came to land on the panelled wooden floor with a thump.

He lay there for a moment, feeling tiny splinters from the wood digging into his forehead and forearms. His head echoed in time with his pulse: throb throb for every heartbeat. The darkness was not absolute; multi-coloured sparks and fireworks erupted in showers behind his eyelids. He kept his eyes tightly closed.  His ears seemed to be working though; faint but steady footsteps were echoing along the corridor outside, the slap of shoe on wood growing louder with each passing second.

_Not Father. Not Father._

But it couldn’t be father – not here. Anyway, these floors were wood, not stone.

He flexed his arms involuntarily, and guided by the faint smell of sandalwood, reached out for the small wooden box that had not moved from his bedside table since the day of the fire, then stopped immediately. A burning pain birthed at the ends of his fingers, then ran up his arms in little electric currents. A curious tickling sensation began to spread around his midriff.

The footsteps came right over the threshold, then stopped.

“Sirius? Oh – Sirius, my dear!” A feminine voice, soft and low and gentle.

The darkness before his face thickened; a shadow had fallen over his eyes. Almost by instinct Sirius moved; and then two strong arms caught him underneath his arms, lifted him up in a relatively smooth movement – it jarred his pounding head less than he’d anticipated – then deposited him on his bed. A pillow was pushed in under his neck.

Slowly, with extreme caution, Sirius opened one eye.

The room immediately began to spin. Not as far or as fast as it had when he’d first arrived at Potter Manor after the row at Grimmauld; this time, with an effort, he was able to hold back the nausea.

“What happened?” Another voice; deep, warm, pleasant.

Uncle Charlus. He was there, standing next to Aunt Dorea at the foot of the bed, face set into concerned wrinkles at his brow and around his eyes, his greying hair in a state of magnificent dishevelment.

“A nightmare. Another one,” Aunt Dorea said. “He fell out of bed.”

“Did he injure himself?”

A weight descended on the mattress by his hip. Warm fingers reached for his pulse, and transferred their soothing heat onto the clammy skin of his wrist. “Thankfully, not injured. But cold. A hot chocolate won’t go amiss” – Aunt Dorea nodded at Uncle Charlus, who slipped out of the room – “and a change of pyjamas, I think. A new bandage as well – this one has unwound itself.”

By the time Uncle Charlus returned, bearing a steaming cup of thick sweet cocoa, Sirius had managed to change with Aunt Dorea’s help, and was sitting up  - albeit shakily – in bed. He took the cup thankfully from Uncle Charlus’ hands, and eagerly sipped; the wave of warmth that slid down his throat was wonderful.

“Would you like to tell us about the nightmare?” Aunt Dorea asked gently. She had asked this each night now, for several days running – Sirius had lost count how many – and she had not protested even once when he’d refused. But she hadn’t given up asking – and she didn’t disguise her request with whiles and platitudes, either. She was not one to beat about the bush, and Sirius was grateful for that.

He did owe them both the truth, after all.

“It…It’s the same dream,” he began, hesitantly, “the same one I always have…at ho – at Grimmauld. I’m in a room with Reg, and then Father comes…only…only it’s not him…” his mouth was dry, and forming words around his swollen tongue was a gargantuan effort. “It…it’s me…” He took a too-large gulp of cocoa, and it blistered his throat as it went down. He did not look up. He didn’t need to – he knew all too well that two pairs of eyes were fixed on him, two gazes, one hazel and one grey, but both alike in their sadness and pity.

A figure detached itself from the doorway, where the shadows were thickest, and emerged to stand in the flickering pool of candlelight at the foot of his bed. It was James, clad in blue-striped pyjamas and sporting a shock of the finest bedhead.

“Go back to bed,” Sirius mumbled.

James ignored him. “You’ve had this nightmare going on for a fortnight now,” he said abruptly, and seated himself next to Aunt Dorea. “Every single night since the fire I hear you groaning and muttering in your sleep. Did you think I wouldn’t hear?”

“I thought you were deaf,” Sirius murmured.

James ignored this too. Sirius did not blame him.

“You shouldn’t worry about Regulus,” James told him, dipping a finger into the cocoa and licking it off. “He’s not a baby, he’s the one who chose not to come with you – as I’ve told you countless times – and he can look after himself very well indeed.”

Sirius shrugged and picked at the quilt with his free hand. There was no reply he could make to James, because every word he’d said was true. But truth did not drive away that constant nagging torment at the back of Sirius’ mind, nor did it erase the vivid picture of Regulus, bound and gagged, blood dripping from his wrists onto the floor…

He shivered, and hastily swallowed some more cocoa. “He said he’d Floo if he could,” he said slowly.

Uncle Charlus’ brow wrinkled. “He didn’t say anything outright about it when I saw him last week, but I thought you boys must be having your own ways of communicating – code and whatnot.”

There hadn’t been any hidden message in the greeting Regulus had conveyed through Uncle Charlus, though Sirius had spent a lot of time dwelling on it, going over and over the exact wording. Sirius shook his head. “He promised he would. If he hasn’t written or fire-called, that means he can’t.”

“Look Padfoot,” James said, “I know you’re worried, but let’s try one more letter before we do anything, right? Your owl can still get through the wards at Grimmauld, can’t she?”

“That’s doubtful. But even if she could, they’ll catch her and burn the letter. And maybe – maybe they’ll torture her. Singe her feathers, rip off her talons…” he broke off as all three of the Potters turned green, and Tubby, who had poked his head in through the doorway, swayed on the spot.

“Right, well, that rules it out. How about breaking in through the fireplace?”

“She’d have hexed it, dumbass. Runes on the mantelpiece, blood daubed on the first three stones to the north – the complete works.”

“Right, of course, how stupid of me to forget. And I’m sure, geniuses that we are, we’d never be able to crack her hexes, will we?”

“I’m the genius, Prongs,” Sirius countered, moving his cup away from James’ wandering fingers. “You’re the one who ended up with frosty fingers last time we tried.”

“Ah, well, Moony will be able to think of something.”

“I thought he’s left for Australia?”

“Austria,” James corrected, then glanced surreptitiously at his parents. “Not yet – next week, I think, or the week after.”

“No need to go to such great lengths, boys,” Uncle Charlus broke in. “Breaking and entering charges will not look good on your Auror applications, if you’re still of a mind to join up.”

“Of course we are, Dad, but don’t you think it’ll be good experience, to have invaded, with great skill and daring, the torturous abode of such mighty dark wizards?”

Aunt Dorea chuckled. She moved her hand from Sirius’ wrist to his head and let it stay there; and involuntarily, he leaned into the touch. Her eyes, though still heavy with a lingering sorrow, had lines of laughter around the edges. “Don’t sound so wistful,” she told James, “I’ve no doubt you’ll get plenty of opportunities for giving them some grief, but it won’t be this time. Sirius needs all the rest he can get before school starts – all that duelling in Cokeworth has not helped that half-healed wound at all” –

James sniggered, drowning off the rest of Aunt Dorea’s comment. “You should’ve seen McKinnon’s face when he unwrapped that thing last month,” he told his mother. “He looked mad enough to hammer Pads. And speaking of McKinnon – what the heck has happened to him? He’s vanished off the face of the earth since then.”

Sirius felt his lips pulling back into a scowl. “Were you looking through the keyhole?” He demanded.

“Well, I tried one of those sneaky-doorknob things we got from Dervish and Banges, but they didn’t work,” James returned unashamedly, “but I kept watch, anyway. What if you needed me to burst forth and hold your hand and pat your head while all that bandaging was going on, and I wasn’t there?”

“Git,” Sirius said, and drank up the last of his drink.

“McKinnon said that too,” James said cheerfully. “But to you, not to me. And he also said he wouldn’t let his sister anywhere in sight of such a foolhardy young” –

The red-hot flush that spread along Sirius’ skin burned a fiery path along his neck and face. “Shut up!” He snapped at James, and hoped his voice didn’t sound shaky. Setting his cup on the table, he closed his fingers over the little wooden box, and sighed when the now-familiar currents of coolness washed over his body.

Aunt Dorea and Uncle Charlus were smilingly benignly at them. “I’m quite in earnest about this, Jamie,” Aunt Dorea said. “You boys stay away from that place, do you hear?”

“Aunt Dorea and I will go along and see how your brother is getting along, Sirius, if needs must.”

“I…I’d rather you wouldn’t, Uncle Charlus. They’ll say…things.”

“I have no doubt they’ll have plenty to say,” Aunt Dorea agreed. “And I’m sure we’ll have plenty to say to them, as well. My dear niece Walburga might not enjoy being reminded how – ah – superbly she acquitted herself during the Mad Goblin Caper of ’55.”

James looked curious, but Sirius chuckled hoarsely. “Blackmail, Aunty? I like it.”

Uncle Charlus moved towards the window, and opened the curtains that shut out the midnight chill. It was half-past one, if that infernal tin clock on the bedside table had managed not to stop – but the velvety hush that lay over the land resembled more the magic of midnight. What little of the grounds Sirius could see from bed were dark, but beyond the edge of lawns, and beyond the town, the three fells rose up, massive and sheer and blue-grey. The cold came creeping in now, and gripped him about the nose and cheeks, but it wasn’t harsh and paralysing, as he’d expected; it was cool and refreshing and whipped up the colour in his face.

“There is one thing more we have to discuss with you, Sirius,” Uncle Charlus said, and Sirius looked up, startled at the gravity in his tones. Uncle Charlus hadn’t been so serious since he’d Apparated them back home from Cokeworth – and that had been fear fuelling his anger.

But now those hazel eyes regarded him gravely. “I have approached this subject with you before, Sirius, and you have refused, but I would like to ask you one more time; if you agree, Aunt Dorea and I would like to lodge an application with the Ministry for the transfer of your guardianship rights from the Blacks, to us.”

“Are you asking me again because you think the witness statement I gave against Bella and Rodolphus will have some standing on the case?”

Uncle Charlus nodded. “Bellatrix is your first cousin – a close enough relationship to plead abuse by your immediate family.”

“They’ll refute the accusation. They’ll do their best to keep this out of court – and I…I don’t want to go to court, either.” He didn’t think he could face any member of his family – aside from Reg, of course – without experiencing a fierce and burning desire to curse them to the deepest depths of hell.

“Neither do we, Sirius,” Aunt Dorea said gently. “But we have plenty of solid evidence to back up the claims of abuse. The records of your injuries, Healer McKinnon’s statement, and even Bellatrix’s magical stamp” –

“You got that analysed?”

“Indeed. Thaddeus Corner’s laboratory was most helpful.” Uncle Charlus smiled briefly. “The bottom line is that you’re almost of age. By law, that renders you old enough to decide who you want as your guardians. And Crouch will provide their records willingly.” His expression was touched with a hint of pride. “You made a very favourable impression on them, from all accounts.”

Sirius wrinkled his nose. “All this for just four months. Is it worth the trouble?”

James, who had remained silent so far, snorted suddenly. “There’s a lot of mayhem you can wreak in four months, mate. Do you want to deprive Mum and Dad of the chance to throw up their hands and shriek in dismay?”

Sirius felt his lips twitch. “You have a point there,” he murmured. “But what does this guardianship thing entail, really? What sort of rights and privileges? Father doesn’t like Bellatrix – he never has, psychological destruction’s been more his thing than the physical, always – but I’ve no doubt that if it came down to safeguarding the Black family name in court, he’d spare no pains to protect Bella.”

“If you transfer guardianship to us, it means we, and not the Blacks, have the power to take any decisions regarding your future. Where you school, any apprenticeships you do, how much pocket money you get – all of that.”

Sirius leaned back against the headrest and closed his eyes. So, this was a matter of legal and extraneous surface rights. Not unexpected, and certainly a relief, but it did not address the question that had been bothering him for all this time. “They disowned me,” he said slowly, keeping his eyes shut.

“By word of mouth” –

“Mother has certainly blasted me off the tapestry by now.”

“The tapestry isn’t a binding legal artefact, Sirius,” Aunt Dorea answered. “If it was so, I’d have been burnt off permanently as well. It’s run by blood and by magic – once you’re born a Black, your name is registered there – and when you die, your date of death will appear there.”

“Once a Black, always a Black?”

“By blood, yes. By law, no.”

“But when the first far outweighs the second, what use is the second at all?”

Uncle Charlus sighed, moved near to the bed and laid a hand on Sirius’ shoulder. “The magic that binds families together goes beyond blood and beyond our understanding at the present moment, son. We’re still fathoming it out – no doubt the Blacks think they’ve got it down pat, though – these things aren’t set in stone, they’re subject to constant change.”

Sirius shook his head wearily. “The Blacks don’t consider people to be people, you know. Individuality exists only as far as it contributes to their elevation –what they call elevation anyway – as a whole.”

“They’re mistaken in their thinking.”

Sirius shrugged. “Maybe. Or maybe not, Prongs. We’re like cogs in a wheel, or a part of a machine. Vehicles in a system – or vectors, keeping alive an outdated institution by passing down tradition from generation to generation.”

Aunt Dorea’s hand tightened on his head. “You recognise the worth of a person, don’t you, Sirius?”

Sirius nodded.

“Well then,” Aunt Dorea continued, and her keen grey gaze softened to a blur, “we ask you, please, to go through with this transfer. Uncle Charlus and I regard you as a son, and this goes beyond duty or obligation.”

They were several things he could have said then. He could have reminded them that he was not a child. Not an adult – he didn’t think he’d ever be one, or certainly not a good one, he bungled things too much for that – but he certainly wasn’t a child. Childhood required innocence and wonder and… and other things he didn’t have. Things he hadn’t had for a long time. Grimmauld Place had sapped him of his vitality years before he even started at Hogwarts.

He could have said that Walburga and Orion weren’t really people – sometimes he wasn’t sure if he was a person himself, really – and that the Potter were giving him much, much more than just food and shelter.

But he didn’t.

Sirius wasn’t idiotic enough to think that he’d ever be entirely free of the shadow of Grimmauld, of the Blacks, and of the frightening insanity that was slowly, inexorably, tightening its grasp on him. But here, he’d be as furthest away from the lunacy as he possibly could; here was a lifting of the terrible anxiety that weighed his shoulders down each day, here were family and support and security. Here was love, and he would be a madman indeed if he refused it.


	21. New Beginnings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You could not, it seemed, sign away family with a few smatters of emerald ink. The stain of blood was far more indelible.

The week since Sirius agreed to sign a Transfer of Guardianship document flew by at the rate of a newly-minted Cleansweep. The nightmares, though still a nightly occurrence, reduced in potency, and the effect they had on Sirius’ health began to diminish, even if they didn’t vanish all together. Aunt Dorea and Uncle didn’t press Sirius for any more information or confessions – gentle though they had been about the last one – but it was a relief to have the load off his chest, all the same.

But there were other matters that influenced Sirius’ health. The sharp, all-encompassing heat of summer continued. The nightly storms were over, but the days were just as bad, from bright, headache-inducing mornings, to limp, weary afternoons and evenings that dragged on and on and never seemed to end. He wasn’t allowed to fly yet, or run, or do more than walk about the gardens. Most evenings, he was reduced to sitting at the windows and watching as Grumpy chased James around the greenhouses and emptied buckets of Stinksap over his head.

His wounds were not healing as well as Aunt Dorea wished. At first it had begun to knit at a remarkable rate – with the help of Uncle Alphard’s timely present – but after the night of the fire, when Sirius had expended much more energy than he’d expected, the healing had slowed. A near-constant fatigue was another unwelcome side effect of that dreadful night. Aunt Dorea was his chief Healer now, doing everything for him from prescribing potions to changing his dressings.

Because McKinnon was still missing.

“Not a shadow of him,” Uncle Charlus had reported gravely, on arriving from a Floo visit to the McKinnon household. “His sister’s had a short note from him – it was not very informative or reassuring, and she’s beside herself with worry.”

Sirius tried to smooth away his frown as well as he could, but he knew James, who’d been watching him from the time Uncle Charlus stepped through the fireplace, wasn’t fooled.

“We’ve had a note from him too, Dad.” James held out the paper that had come with the morning owl post. “It doesn’t say much. And it isn’t his handwriting either.” It was written with a Muggle pen on ruled notepaper, bespeaking either a Muggle location or a Muggle amanuensis.

“Chocolate stains,” Uncle Charlus said, fingering a smear at one end of the crumpled sheet, “and a child’s hand.”

“Moony – Remus – thinks he might be holed up at Honeydukes, or someplace similar, like a chocolate factory,” Sirius offered.

Uncle Charlus smiled slightly. “I think that’s your friend’s sweet tooth speaking. But Dougal’s been missing for more than a fortnight now. St Mungo’s has filed a complaint with the Magical Persons Registry. They haven’t done anything yet – not that I’m surprised.”

Sirius wasn’t at all surprised, either. Despite a well-deserved lambasting from Uncle Charlus over the Cokeworth fiasco, their efficiency was still non-existent. “You can start a search, can’t you, through the Auror Department?”

“Of course, Sirius. He’s got a few friends in the Department too – Frank of course you know – and I think you’ve met Cavendish too…”

“Do you think – I mean – Marlene, she can’t stay there alone, can she? And she’s got a small brother too – he can’t be more than eight, I think” –

“I already asked her, Sirius. She and the little boy are very welcome here any time. She refuses to come though” – his lips twitched lightly when Sirius’ eyes darkened – “insists on staying and keeping the house open, on the off-chance that he’ll suddenly come in.”

James muttered under his breath, and Sirius whacked him on the shoulder. “Maybe we could go there,” he said hopefully, “just for a few hours. It can’t be safe for them to be shut up all alone like that.”

“I don’t think she’ll appreciate that. You tried to feel her up the last time you saw her didn’t you, by the lake” –

“Only her hands – she’s got beautiful knuckles” –

“ _Even_ if she’s got nice knuckles. You can’t just go round feeling up people like that, Padfoot – specially the ones you like!” –

“Says the man who hung Snivellus upside down from thin air, then expected Evans to go out with you” –

“That’s cancelled out,” James said firmly. “The fire fixed it all.”

“She’ll be keeping it in her subconscious,” Sirius said vindictively, “and one of these days she’ll blindside you with it when you least expect it” –

“Enough,” Uncle Charlus rapped out, and the boys quieted immediately. “I’ve had to diffuse fights all week at the Auror Department, and I really can’t be doing that at home too. We’ll go there tomorrow, once the Transfer documents are signed,” he told Sirius, “and I’ll see about arranging a search. There’s just one more thread that’s worth following up before we decide on an official search.”

 

 *******  
  


They sat around the same mahogany table in the same inquiry room at the far end of the DMLE, where Sirius had had his first interview with Crouch and his minion. The candles with their rising, circling, hypnotic spires of smoke, and the dull _throb throb throb_ of rain against the charmed windows were gone. Instead the room was stuffy with sunlight, too-sharp, too-yellow, and the high, rubbery squeaks of artificial bird song assaulted Sirius’ ears.

The signing of the document took very little time. Crouch read out the terms and rules of the Transfer, which were agreed to by all, and his minion made some acerbic remarks about Thaddeus Corner’s newly patented magical topographical maps and McKinnon’s continued absences – which were promptly suppressed by Uncle Charlus. Then the parchment document was sent around, and Sirius, Uncle Charlus, and Father signed it.

“And that is the end of that,” Crouch announced with satisfaction.

But that was not the end of that.

Father did not rise from his seat and sweep out with all the majesty expected of a Black. It was funny, Sirius supposed, he hadn’t any obligation to call the man Father any more, but the word still rolled easily off his tongue. It wasn’t the same as the warm mellowness that accompanied _Prongs_ or _Moony_ or even _Aunt Dorea,_ but there was none of acidic regret he’d expected. You could not, it seemed, sign away family with a few smatters of emerald ink. The stain of blood was far more indelible.

“One last matter,” Crouch corrected himself, “in accordance with information received, and a complaint lodged, warrants for immediate arrest have been put on Bellatrix and Rodolphus Lestrange. The charges laid will be the performance of two Killing curses, a Cruciatus curse, and an outlawed Cleaving curse.”

Dodging an irritating sunbeam, Sirius leaned forward. “I didn’t make that complaint.”

The minion frowned. “But your information and complaint” –

“I asked for charges against the Killing curse, the Cleaving curse and werewolf hunting,” Sirius corrected. “I don’t think my guardian asked for one against a Cruciatus either.”

Crouch and his minion exchanged looks. “We assumed” –

“Oh, you assumed? That will be just fine, then, won’t it? It worked out well for you, the last time you _assumed_ that Cokeworth had a magical population of zero.”

“This is an entirely different matter, Mr Black.”

“No it isn’t,” Sirius snapped. “You’re still dealing with magical law and justice.”

Uncle Charlus shot Sirius a look, then quieted him with a tap on the shoulder. “I trust you won’t disregard this complaint because the source is anonymous?”

Crouch’s toothbrush moustache bristled. “Under normal circumstances, it would not hold much water. But where dangerous and ancient magic is involved, allowing misuse and abuse of such power can prove fatal to the community.”

Sirius chuckled mirthlessly. “And we can’t have that, can we?”

“No we cannot!” Barty Crouch’s voice had all the spring of a mousetrap. “I have been a servant of the Ministry these many years, Mr Black, and I will not allow you to malign our efforts at Magical-Muggle cooperation. Yes, there have been slip-ups,” – it looked as though the admission caused him actual physical pain, and Sirius had to bite his lips to keep back his smile – “but we are doing everything in our power to preserve the autonomy and integrity of our world.” He glared at Sirius, a challenge in his eyes.

Sirius remained silent. “Very well,” Crouch said at last, “now that we have closed proceedings, we will bid you all good day.” He rose, and with a quick nod to Uncle Charlus, Father, and Sirius, left the room, the minion following in his wake.

Father watched them go, eyes hooded, shoulders rigid. Once their footsteps had faded away on the other side of the heavy door, Father’s eyes slid to Sirius. “I made that charge,” he said.

Sirius jaw fell open. “You, Father?”

“I, Sirius.”

“But – but – you” –

“Close your mouth, child, that expression looks most uncouth.” He drummed his fingers on the table, the velvet sleeves of his black robes falling over his palms and knuckles, muffling the noise of flesh on wood. “Using such dangerous curses on my premises has put my wife, my child and my elf in direct way of potentially fatal injuries. I will not tolerate that under any circumstance.”

Anger uncoiled in Sirius’ stomach like serpents fleeing a volcano, made its way up his throat and nose like lava from the same. “You said it was taken care of,” he accused, thumping his fist on the table, ignoring the pain that flared at the point of contact, “I haven’t forgotten that day, and neither have you. You said it was already dealt with. What did you do, Father? Take them into the parlour, serve them a pot of tea and pat them over the head?”

Father’s lips curled back in a sneer, heat flushing his neck where the collar lay open over the skin, silver locket lying heavily over the sharp collarbones. “They were well reprimanded then. And they will be caught and punished now.”

“Now? Now? It’s too late, Father.” Sirius could not stop the bitter laugh that bubbled up in his throat. “Where were you then, when I was cursed and almost dying, Father? Did you stop them then? Did you try to help me, or stop me leaving?”

“Your mother did her best to retain your presence, Sirius.”

“She did nothing but encourage me to leave, as you well know,” Sirius spat. “And you – you – did you really think a matter of treasure and inheritance would be enough to stay my hand?”

That was all they had offered, and that was nothing. The soapsuds spell Father had used still lay sour on his tongue, and despite the bright light filling the chamber, he could feel again the heavy, drowning weight of that hated house enveloping him, could hear the slamming of the grate on his fingers as Mother locked the fireplace in a bid to prevent his escape.

Father’s eyes hollowed. “We have been through this before” –

“It should not have been necessary,” Uncle Charlus cut in, sharply, smoothly. He laid his hand over Sirius’ clenched fist, enveloping it in a comforting ring of fire. His voice, when he spoke, could have frozen Hades. “If he was truly your son, you should have known what stuff he was made of. Neither are the bonds of family so easily broken by signatures on a paper, or a cigarette burn on a tapestry.”

Father’s face was carved of marble, lips compressed to a deathly whiteness, cheeks gaunt, the brown drawn up, and the eyes deep pools of melted steel. He looked – as he had never looked before – the very likeness of a death’s head.

The head of Sirius’ nightmares, and those eyes...

“I have lost my son,” Father said, lips barely moving. “I have lost him, and I have mourned him these many years. I am well aware that a mark on a sheet of parchment changes nothing.”

“It was not enough,” Uncle Charlus said quietly.

“No,” Father agreed. “Too little too late – is that not what you Muggle lovers say?”

“Some wounds run too deep, Orion. And this – this abscess will fester forever.”

Eyes moving from countenance to countenance, Sirius drew breath – a large, icy lungful, despite the stifling, choking heat of the room – willed his pulse to slow, his head to stop spinning. “It was a gag,” he said, and unclenched his fingers when his voice remained steady – barely. “A gag on Bellatrix and Rodolphus, a temporary restraint. You wanted something only they could give you.”

Father smiled for the first time that day, a brief working of the lips, listless and empty. “Well done, Sirius. Your powers of reason are still intact.”

“Well? What was it?”

“Work it out for yourself, boy.”

The answer came easily. “The currency of the Blacks, Father. What do you call it – honour? Tradition? Power? All the things you hold most dear.”

“There is no honour in cowardly attacks, nor in paltry defence, as the Lestranges well know. And you, Sirius, I’m ashamed of you” –

“Don’t you dare say that,” Sirius hissed, angling his head to meet Father’s gaze full on. “You lost the right to be either proud or ashamed when you gave me up as a lost cause as soon I started thinking for myself.”

Father’s eyes held his own for one infinite second, grey on grey, locked together in a battle of iron wills. Then, with a flash of something hotter than flame, quicker than lighting, the electricity was broken. Father’s eyes darted to the collar of Sirius’ crimson shirt. “You underestimate my understanding of my own family, Sirius. And you squander your powers of deduction.”

“I’m perfectly aware” –

“No you are not,” Father cut across him abruptly. “You have grown too lazy, your thinking falls into the same old well-worn paths.”

Uncle Charlus stirred, moving forward to match Sirius’ position across the table, never moving his hand from Sirius’ sweaty grip. “They gave you what you wanted.”

Father inclined his head.

Uncle Charlus cast a swift, searching glance at Sirius, who held it until the hazel eyes fell away. “It may well be too late,” Uncle Charlus continued, in tones as soft as gossamer and as cold as steel, “the full extent of their atrocities may never be known, thanks to your delays.”

“You seem very sure of that,” Father said coldly.

“I have cast the net as wide as I can. The Auror are exercising their full powers to bring the Lestranges to justice.”

“Your hands are tied by the law.”

The ghost of a smirk touched Uncle Charlus’ lips. “I wondered when Yaxley would tell you. Luckily, your anonymous complaint fell to Crouch’s lot.” He eyed Father closely. “Or, would you consider it unlucky?”

Father stared back stonily.

“What did you do when Regulus told you?” Sirius demanded. “Oh, yes, I know he came to you – was it after the fire, when Bellatrix did a bunk? You’d have got what you wanted from her by then, wouldn’t you?” He smiled when Father’s eye twitched. “He must have been scared – pale, sweaty… was he biting his lips? They bleed when he’s nervous – have you noticed that, Father?”

The mask dropped away for an instant; Father’s fingernails whitened.

“Did you ignore him at first – just like you ignored me when I told you how much she hurt us when we were little? Something changed your mind – was it Kreacher? Did she torture Kreacher? Regulus wouldn’t have been able to bear _that_ ” –

“She has not been in my house since that day” –

“Rodolphus then,” Sirius drove on. “Stole all the silver daggers, did he? Gathered a few friends and went werewolf hunting – did he take Reg with him – a treat for a good little boy who does what his family tells him to do?”

Father steepled his fingers together. “It was you then, Sirius. I did wonder, when the Artefacts Confiscation team knew exactly where to look… but that is just the tip of the iceberg, is it not?”

Sirius laughed again – odd, how easily he was able to do so today, when he’d expected to be hiding his tears every minute of the time. “How much more are you hiding, Father?”

Slowly, deliberately, Father pushed his chair away from the table and rose, unmindful of the fake birds who broke into angry twitters at the sound of the chair dragging across the flagstones. “I could not tell you, Sirius, what I do not know myself.” He bowed politely to Uncle Charlus, and then directed his gaze at Sirius. “Here ends the extent of my legal obligations to you, Sirius. Do not attempt to contact your mother” –

“As if I’d ever want to see her again” –

“As for the… any others, that is entirely your prerogative. Goodbye, Sirius.” A last, swift sweep of the grey eyes, a flicker that took in Sirius’ trembling lips and heaving chest, and then the door swung shut behind Father, leaving Sirius gasping with the stabbing pain of loss in his gut.

 

*******

“How did you find the place?”

“That doesn’t matter,” Severus said quickly. Lily frowned. Of course it mattered. Their new address was not registered with the Ministry of Magic, and it was unlikely that Severus would have looked it up in the local telephone directory.

“I didn’t give my address to anyone at Hogwarts – or even in Cokeworth,” Lily added.

“It’s not important.” Severus waved a hand airily, and jammed it in his pocket immediately afterwards. A second’s activity, but it was enough for Lily to catch a glimpse of a swathe of white material wound around his right palm.

“What happened to your hand?”

“A potion burn. Pewter does not wear as well as silver.” He looked her full in the face when he answered; he was becoming a better liar by the day. Lily was not sure whether that was a good thing, or a bad one. “What did you call it?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The house.” Severus jerked his head toward the house behind Lily; a square brown house in a square green garden, hemmed in by square white walls punctured by a square green gate. “What did you name your house? There was no board outside.”

Oh. “We called it The Rotunda. I suggested ‘Back to Square One,’ but Tuney’s contribution was considered worthier. ‘A living monument of postmodern rebellion’, apparently.”

Severus sneered. “Undoubtedly your sister has many interests. I would not have thought to count art culture among them.”

“Neither would I, actually.” She peered at the bags floating behind Severus at hip-level, full to the brim with herbs and plants in every shade of green and brown. “What have you got there?”

“Ingredients for potions. The apothecary’s stores in Diagon Alley and Hogsmeade are sadly limited. I had to go picking.”

“Missing anything so far?”

“I have yet to find Aloe Vera and Cardamom.”

“Going in for your own hair-conditioning line, are you?”

Severus blinked. “What?” –

Lily supressed a sigh, but could not stop her brows drawing together in a frown. “Never mind. What are you experimenting with? Cooling draughts – or sensory elixirs?”

“Something of both,” Severus said. He looked past her at the freshly turned earth in the flower beds nearest the front door. Something in them seemed to alarm or disturb him, because his eyes grew darker, and his lips compressed. “You would not have what I require, would you?”

“No. There is plenty of Magnolia and Wisteria up the way, if you need those.” She wasn’t interested in pursuing the topic further. A nondescript suburb in Surrey held no attraction or adventure for her. Severus was a much more interesting subject. She hadn’t seen him since a few days before the fire – and then, their conversation had been far from smooth. Something of her thoughts must have shown on her face, because Severus, who’d been watching her intently, stepped forward and reached for her hand. Lily hurriedly put her hands behind her back.

Severus’ face clouded. “I am sorry,” he said abruptly.

“So you said – at Hogwarts and afterwards. But really, I doubt you mean it.”

“But I did – I do.”

Lily turned away, shading her eyes against the glare of the hurtful summer sun with her earth-browned palms. “Still friends with Avery and Wilkes, then? And that odious Mulciber?”

Severus’ silence was answer enough. She didn’t have to look at him to know how he was standing – legs apart, shoulders hunched – and perhaps, if he was particularly vulnerable, only a shadow of the torture he felt visible through the opaque black curtain of his eyes. She swung around, rage erupting in fountains inside her. “You have to choose a side sometime, Severus.”

He couldn’t look at her now.

“It’s coming – the war. We’re hidden away at Hogwarts, all cosy with spell books and potions and twitchy little incantations – a nice little play-world – but for how long? It’s out there now – it was there in Cokeworth, and it’s in London and Peterborough and a hundred other places. It’ll be here too before long. Are you going to choose then?”

His face was white – a sickly, pasty white that rested harshly against his natural pallor, but the lines of his mouth, his brow, his cheeks, were erased entirely of expression. “You’re my friend, Lily.”

“Don’t lie, Severus. Honesty suits you better. You have chosen already.” As the words left her mouth, a sick, dull certainty began to spring up like boils in her stomach. “I know you’ve chosen – what you’ll do, when they call you.” She flicked her eyes towards his arm, quick and sharp as a laser, and he recoiled as if she’d shot him.

“See?” Lily smiled wearily. All the anger she’d felt had suddenly drained away, leaving only an aching bone-weariness. “We’re not friends anymore, Severus. We can’t be, while people like you hunt people like me. All those leaflets circulating in your common room – and even the Ravenclaw common room, and the clandestine meetings – oh yes, I know about all those. Join our cause! Learn ancient forgotten magic! Acknowledge the importance of blood purity! Let’s wipe out Mudbloods and half-breeds and Muggles!”

Severus moistened dry lips; a discreet movement that he couldn’t hide from her sharp gaze. “It will not come to that, Lily. I will not let it.”

Lily laughed, the sound sticking harshly in her throat, almost choking her. “You, Severus? What can you do? You’re sixteen years old – one amongst many.” She turned and walked back to flower beds, and picking up her discarded spade, dug vigorously into the soil. “Even you, Severus, with all your talents and magical prowess, don’t have a hope in hell of stopping them!”

Three quick strides had Severus kneeling down next to her. “I rue that day – by the Lake. I never, never meant to call you that” –

“But you did” –

“I was under pressure,” Severus snapped. “That infernal Potter and that maniac Black!” –

Lily clutched her spade, and violently uprooted a wilting Begonia. “Honesty blossoms best under pressure. Your apologies don’t ring true to me, Severus. Are your really sorry, or in your heart of hearts, is that what you think about me – that I’m worse than useless – a freak who has stolen the magic of others, and deserves, not just to be expelled from your world, but violent and cruel death?”

“You have not stolen magic,” Severus said softly. “Your powers are your own. And violent death – death is unavoidable, but nobody deserves that” –

“Maybe you should pass along the message to You-Know-Who, then,” Lily said bitterly. “Your little friends came along to our town, and burned us all down. I thought I could stop them – just like you think now – but nothing, _nothing_ can stop that flame of hatred from burning. And where were you then? When the houses were falling into ruin around us, and children were dragged off as hostages – where were you? I called for you, but you didn’t come.”

“I was… with friends…”

 _Oh._ “Had a nice little meeting with the Inner Circle? I hope you enjoyed it” –

“Lily” –

“Don’t _Lily_ me, Severus! I inquired at the Ministry Desk when they set up camp in Cokeworth, and they basically told me to shut up and get out. But do you know who came when we were under attack, and fought for us – with us – and won? They won, Severus, against the Death Eaters. Potter and Black, Severus, those two.”

Severus’ black eyes widened; the blood receded from his face. “That – that cannot be. Potter’s father is an Auror, he probably toured to see the aftermath” –

“They fought alongside me,” Lily cut in sharply. “They were injured in the process. Bullies they maybe – I do not absolve them of that – but they have an unprecedented measure of courage. One far greater than I’d have ever suspected.”

The noonday sun beat down on their backs. Lily watched with sick fascination as beads of sweat formed at Severus’ hairline, his collar, and drenched the fine hairs visible where his cotton sleeves stopped short of his wrists. His eyes too – normally shuttered to an inch, were open wide now, burning, pulsing pools of rage and jealousy. _I saw it coming,_ Lily thought, rootballing a couple of croutons with a vicious twist of her wrist, _I saw this miles away, and did nothing._

Did that make her a coward, despite the crimson tie she so proudly wore? The road to hell was paved with the little things that were irrelevant to their friendship now: the letters from Potter, only lately answered, the scrawled notes from Black, witness to injury and weakness in their irregular hand, and the missive addressed to Auror De Sousa, sent to the Ministry, but returned to sender via Muggle post, with an address scrawled on the back in coloured pencil.

“Where are you staying now?” Lily asked abruptly.

“Two streets down. It’s being built up again. Still Spinner’ End, but it – it’s a better house.”

“Where were your parents that day? I looked for them – and when I couldn’t find them, I thought – I thought” –

“Mother was away – relatives in Little Babbington. And Father,” Severus smiled humourlessly, “he goes when he wants and comes back when he likes.”

“They took hostages,” Lily continued, though she was sure Severus knew, “and people are still missing. My cousin Cassie – she – oh Severus, she’s gone.”

“Perhaps she is not dead.”

“I don’t know where she is. I don’t know how they bear it – my aunt and uncle – it’s the uncertainty, Severus. Have you felt anything like it before? It eats away at your insides like acid at silver.”

Severus reached out, and plucked away the leaves from the discarded Begonia with brittle fingers. “Death is not the end,” he said quietly. “It is not even the sole preferred method of dealing with hostages. There are spells – other charms” –

“Curses and jinxes” –

“ _No_. Charms beyond the powers of an undisciplined wand. Trances that neither harm nor destroy, but keep, and preserve.” Lily watched Severus watch the house, the garden, breathe in the freshness of the rusty brown earth. “You have chosen a good place,” he said at last. “There is not much magic here. What is broken by Muggle means is easily repaired.”

But there was magic here. In Lily’s room in the wand and books on her desk, here in the plants and herbs she grew, in Severus, and around him, where it curled like strands of a spider’s web, ancient and golden and musty green, and there were things, which once broken, could not be mended.


	22. Philosophy And Flirtations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary laughed. “I would make a joke about meet food and whatnot, but you’re a far throw from Signor Benedick, Remus.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quotes and references from William Shakespeare’s Much Ado About Nothing, and Richard II.

Peter was relieved to find a reply from Professor Imago waiting on his desk when he returned from Brighton. He was less relieved when three quarters of the parchment were dedicated to a blow-by-blow account of Professor Imago’s latest fight with his publisher. Fortunately, his sister Gracie found the anecdotes most amusing.

“He didn’t!” She gurgled.

“But he did.” Peter consulted the third line, and squinted to make out a section at the end, where the ink ran together. “He still has trouble climbing stairs, but he thinks it’ll wear off by the beginning of next year.”

“Just think of that!”

Peter rolled his eyes. “I have thought about it, actually. And it’s of no help to me. Now, if he’d only bothered to use sandalwood on the bruises and tell me if they’ve really got any healing properties” –

“I’ve got some sandalwood shampoo,” Gracie volunteered. “Why don’t I give you a good whack, then you bathe with it and see if it works.”

“No thanks,” Peter said hurriedly. “Evans uses a sandalwood perfume – according to Prongs, anyway, but it doesn’t seem to have any effect there.”

“Why not just ask for this box from your friend and study it?”

“He won’t give it up. Probably sleeps with it under his pillow.” Even the thought of the box annoyed Peter. It was a point of contention between him and Sirius, who staunchly refused to part with it for even a day. How was Peter supposed to study it, when they refused to trust him with it? Sirius had scoffed when he’d asked, and said it was not a matter of trust at all, but that he felt better when the box was in his sight at all times. Not that there was anyone at Potter Manor who’d be interested in stealing it, though.

Gracie took up the peacock feather quill on Peter’s desk, and started scribbling on a spare parchment. “What about your other friend – the one who’s supposed to be doing the runic translations?”

“He’s behind hand.” Another thing to worry about. “He’s ill, though – keeps on saying he’s going to Austria for treatment, but he hasn’t gone yet. I don’t think he’s well enough to do good research.”

“Oh. Has he made any headway with the carvings at all?”

“There’s nothing in the Greek and Roman lexicons about it – or _Numerology and Grammatica_ either.”

Gracie shrugged and poked her tongue out at Peter. “Don’t ask me about these dead languages. We don’t even learn Latin at school. But doesn’t your Professor have anything to say about the Sanskrit translations you did? Can’t you get a book from your library and look it up?”

“They don’t have many about Eastern language runes,” Peter admitted.

“I thought they had everything about everything there.”

“They do – most of the time. Could try the Restricted Section, I suppose. Maybe Professor Imago will give me a note when we get back.”

“Are Sanskrit runes dangerous?” Gracie’s eyes loomed large over the feather end of the quill, and a spreading purple ink blot adorned her chin and much of her lower lip.

“Not that I know,” Peter said, pulling _From the Mouths of The Sages_ from the large pile of books at his elbow and flicking through it. Predictably, it fell open at all the dog-eared pages, leading his eye down to paragraphs marked and underlined with green ink. There was nothing new, no sudden revelation that jumped out of the mix of pulp and ink and left him gasping and illuminated. He shut the book with a snap and threw it at the door.

“Mum will hear you,” Gracie said.

“I thought she was out.”

“She’s back now. Dad’s gone out with Janie to the park.”

“Left her kite there again, I suppose. Just as well. They wouldn’t have been of any help, either.” Mum and Dad were practical people with little interest in obscure runes and old magic, and Janie was a squib – besides being too young to help. Gracie was also a squib, but she was intelligent – and she liked to talk about magic.

“Maybe your Professor’s letter has got some hints.” Gracie leaned forward, and neatly extracted the letter from Peter’s hand.

“Hey!”

Dodging Peter’s flailing arm, Gracie plopped down on the window seat, drew the blind halfway across to shade her face from the worst of the sun, and squinted down at the letter, trying to make out the words. “He has terrible handwriting,” she announced. “How old is he?”

Peter muffled a snort. “I don’t know – twenty seven or twenty eight, maybe?”

“Tell him he should have learnt to write better twenty years ago.”

“I’ll be sure to pass your message on.”

Gracie stared. “Will you really?”

Peter couldn’t stop himself from rolling his eyes again. It was a habit he’d picked up from Sirius, and one he frequently used around his younger sisters. He gestured to the paper. “Anything interesting?”

“He says you should develop your research along the lines of the phrase you’ve already translated – this… _hath pana athma.”_

“Seven – life – soul. Literally.”

“Do people have seven souls?”

“Not usually, no. And before you ask, they don’t have seven lives either. That’s cats.”

“Cats have _nine_ lives, stupid.” Gracie eyes him severely. “And I’m just asking. Maybe you can divide your soul into seven parts or something?”

“Now you’re being stupid. The soul is indivisible. _Everybody_ knows that.”

“Well, _I_ didn’t.”

“You’re a squib,” Peter said, and tried to make his tones as kind as he could. “You can’t really be expected to know these things. Besides, I’m not even sure the soul exists. It sounds like a lot of farfetched nonsense to me sometimes.”

Gracie ignored him in favour of staring thoughtfully at the letter. “Maybe its healing properties aren’t physical. Maybe its job is to cure the soul.” Her blue eyes flicked up to meet his. “Has your friend bruised his soul?”

“He was badly injured, and his core’s depleted, but I don’t think he has bruised his soul, no.” Sirius was more likely to have a badly bruised bank account. He’d owled Peter as soon the Guardianship Transfer had been completed the day before. Doubtlessly the Potters would look after him well, but Sirius would lose more than he gained by this severing of ties with the Blacks.

“Ah well.” Gracie dismissed that line of inquiry and turned to the next paragraph of Professor Imago’s reply. “The _Nasties_? Peter, really?”

“Why? They’re just Muggles, aren’t they?”

“ _Nazis,_ Peter. Hitler was their leader – and he killed off six million Jews and gypsies and other people he didn’t like. That’s a big deal, I’d have thought.”

“He killed so many?” Peter stared blankly at Gracie. “Why?”

“Thought they were threats, I suppose. He liked Aryans only, and wanted to kill off people who didn’t agree with him.”

“Don’t we all, sometimes?”

“I wouldn’t go so far as to kill them. Cosh them over the head, maybe. If I was angry enough.”

Gracie might need a cosh, but they – wizards and witches didn’t. There were less messy and painful methods. Peter didn’t tell this to his sister, because there were some ideas better kept to himself. “He must have been very powerful,” Peter said out loud.

“What I don’t understand is why there’s a swastika symbol on the box.” Gracie shoved her doodle parchment at Peter. He stared down at the perfectly drawn swastika on it. “Did Hitler use sandalwood to massacre them? Maybe it’s gas in your friend’s box, disguised as sandalwood.”

“Considering Sirius’ rate of sniffing that box, he should then be dead many times over.”

“A reversal method, then.” Gracie tossed Professor Imago’s letter onto the windowsill, and jabbed her finger at her drawing. “Use the sandalwood to negate the effects of the gas. It could be – it’s a very old box.”

Peter frowned. “What’s Sirius got to do with these Nasties, then?”

Gracie met Peter’s eyes and chewed her lip. “That’s what you’ll have to find out.”

 

*******

 

The bay swept round in a vast semi-circle, bound on one side by eternal swathes of sand, and on the other side by roaring, foaming breakers, curling over the low-lying barriers of rocks, smacking onto the beaches with thunderous applause. The cliff path was a winding scramble through scrub and gravel, and made Remus shake at the knees at the most vertical inclines. At last, with a sigh of relief, he dropped onto his haunches beside Mary on the sand.

She raised an eyebrow. “Well?”

“It’s beautiful.” He closed his eyes and breathed in, the tightening in his chest and throat loosening with the draught of pure, sparkling air. “I love the salt. And now I understand why they call it cornflower blue.” He took another gulp of air, then choked when a whiff of smoke stuck at the back of his throat. “What’s that burning taste?”

“The ruins are just beyond that cliff over there.” Mary flapped her hand toward the west. “Charred beyond repair, they said.”

“Cursed fire. You’re very lucky nobody was injured – or dead.”

“We don’t know that,” Mary said, rising to her feet and leading Remus towards the ruins. “All we know is that there was nobody there by the time the villagers were alerted to the flames. If – if there was someone trapped in, there – there wouldn’t be anything left to find…”

Remus dragged his feet, sinking the toes of his scuffed shoes into the sand, trying to push out of his mind the details James and Sirius had given him of their duel, and the descriptions Lily had sent in her last letter. “Was it Fiendfyre or self-multiplying flames?”

Mary shrugged. “Can’t say, after the fact.” She shot him a sidelong glance. “Do you think it was the same lot as Cokeworth?”

“Could be.” Remus raised one shoulder in a shrug, then winced. Even his usual tics and gestures were causing him pain now. “Death Eaters are creatures of method. If one formula of destruction works, they’ll stick with it as far as they can.”

He sucked in a breath, sharp and warm between his teeth when they rounded the curve and the ruins came in sight.  It was impossible to believe that this crumbled, blacked out shell was all that was left of one of the oldest magical libraries in the world. No pillar, beam or rafter was left intact. Stone, which was immune to Muggle fire, brooked no chance against enchanted flames. Three charred half-walls stood to mark the spots where the rooms had been. For yards around, safe from the high tide water mark, the sands bore the ashy, muddy look of soil mixed with pulp and parchment.

Remus prodded the remnants of what had once been a large, leather bound volume with his toe. “Didn’t the enchantments hold? Fire-repellent charms are compulsory on heritage sites.”

Mary sniffed, mouth twisting into a sneer. “The Defensive spells here are an amateur job. No security guard, either. Even a third year drop-out could have got through the wards here.” She kicked out at a wayward stone.

Remus’ lips twitched. “My dear Lady Disdain” –

Mary laughed. “I would make a joke about meet food and whatnot, but you’re a far throw from Signor Benedick, Remus.”

Remus angled his head, held Mary’s gaze. “Are you challenging me, good lady?”

“Would you kill Claudio for me?”

“I would, if I knew one of that name.” Remus smiled at Mary, and walking right to the edge of the sands, flopped down at the waterline, where the breakers, here gentling to smooth-rushing waves flowed under his heels. “For God’s sake, let us sit upon the ground, and tell sad stories of the deaths of kings.”

Mary followed him, sitting so close that the tendrils of hair, escaping from the ponytail, brushed his cheek. “So you think that too,” she said thoughtfully, dipping her fingers into the foam, “First sign of rebellion against the monarch: burn down his books, the symbol of his intellectual reign.”

“Who’s the king, then? The Ministry? Dumbledore?”

“They’d have targeted Hogwarts.”

“That’s the safest place in Britain,” Remus objected. “Do we find any books here that can’t be found at Hogwarts?”

“Hogwarts had more,” Mary said, biting the inside of one cheek. “I suppose the Restricted Section has some of the copies they had here, but some of the oldest ones here were in manuscript form, and they were the only copies in the world.”

Remus curled his own fingers over the water, gratefully embracing the coolness of the salt that was an ambrosia to his swollen, aching knuckles. “A different king,” he thought aloud. “Not a person; an idea – ideal, rather. Pureblood supremacy? But why would they burn down the oldest of magical books then – dismiss their own heritage?”

Mary frowned. “Just the opposite, Remus. Maybe the books have theories in support of blood mixing. The Death Eaters wouldn’t want centuries of that to come to light.”

Remus grinned. Mary wasn’t the smartest girl in the world for nothing. _Not that James or Sirius would agree with that!_ “Great thought. Worth looking into. What were the books about, mostly?”

“Oh, souls and prophecies and healing and mysteries and the usual philosophical stuff.”

“Nothing to interest the power-hungry. Anything about outdated curses?”

“Could be. Or ancient histories of baddies past. The Death Eaters could have read them – and then destroyed them to prevent anybody else getting their hands on them.”

“Possibly.” Remus lay back, head dropping onto the soft ground behind, and turned his head to look at Mary. The sun was setting now, just beyond their line of vision, but the sky overhead was thrown into soft shades of indigo and crimson. Her torso and legs were out of his sight, but the skin of her face and throat glowed gently, like candlelight on translucent marble. “You’ll have to do it, though, because I’ll be away for some time – got a few…a few problems to sort out.”

“Don’t tell me you’re taking your naughty rabbit to the vet again.”

“You’ve been talking to James.”

“Guilty as charged.” She looked at him, the light green flecks in her irises glowing. “I know you’re sick, Remus,” she said gently, and Remus gasped, chest and throat tightening up again with alarming suddenness. “It was obvious to me, even before – before, you know…” she reached for his hand, took it up and ran her fingers gently over the swollen joints. Her entire arm was covered with heated blisters, the results of that terrible day behind the greenhouses. The calluses on her fingers brushed against his own. Scars on scars. “Is there any chance of the treatment working?”

Remus unstuck his throat, but even so, his voice came out in a harsh croak. “I don’t know; it’s an experimental treatment. It might be perfect, or it might be useless.”

“When will you be back?”

“I don’t know,” Remus said again. All the pain, the sacrifices, these aches, these talks and moments, might well disappear in the space of a second. And Mary, too, would not be idle. She would search, and search, and find out what he could not bring himself to say.

Mary squeezed his hand. “That’s all right. I’ll be waiting.”

 _But will you?_ “It might be a very long time.”

“I have all the time in the world,” Mary said.


	23. Knockturn Alley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sirius smirked. Suddenly, he looked very much like Bellatrix. Peter swallowed convulsively.

_Therefore never send to know for whom the bells tolls…_

No – no, that was not it.

Of course not. There were no tolling bells here – merely the rusty halting clang of a customer alarm echoing from inside. Peter shrugged, barely suppressing a shiver as the door swung closed behind him with an alarming screech. Metal spikes at the foot of the door swing made a sweeping arc in three inches of dust, sending ashen motes spiralling up into the gloomy blackness above their heads. On either side of the ancient door were brick walls, grimy with the mud of centuries, fading away beyond his line of sight, into the far reaches of the shop.

Darkness was the order of the day here, as it was in every other shop in this alley. The owners of the shops wore the bleak and the distressing as others might don a cloak of honour. It was just the outer covering – the impenetrable veil that hid a core that was a thousand times as sinister.

This was not the first time he’d come here. A few times, many years ago, when he was still in squeaky shoes and Martin Miggs shirts, Father had brought him inside. They came in search of herbs and spices for ranges of potions that Father would brew afterwards, locked away in a shed at the back of the garden, their hair frizzing with smoke, their flesh darkening with soot. The resulting concoctions were slipped surreptitiously into his sisters’ food and drink, and Peter would watch them for days afterwards with bated breath.

Nothing ever happened.

His sister’s magical powers – or lack thereof – stayed exactly the same, and Mother never knew about those secret brewing sessions. Neither did she know about the visits to Knockturn Alley – either with Father, or the later visits he made with the Marauders. Peter was used to keeping secrets; hugging the knowledge close to his heart like a favourite present, revelling in the warm shivers that crept up his spine and wrists at night.

Of course, he’d felt fear too. He’d stayed close to Father when they came, never wandering far from his strong and steady reach, and eyeing the curios on shelves at his level with a mixture of respect and apprehension. In later years that fear turned into nervous bravado as he sulked along the streets with his friends, anonymous in dark hoods and slithery trousers, secure inside the bubble shield charms Remus cast around them.

Although his own feelings about the place had changed, the atmosphere of the alley had stayed constant throughout the centuries. Peter recognised dark magic when he met it – that strange, weighty pressing on his chest was surely nothing else – Sirius had described a similar aura at Grimmauld Place – but worse was the rank sour-sweet stench that clung to the glass of windowpanes, lanterns, and the clothes of every living thing there.

That smell was here too, seeping in through chinks in the stone floor and gaps in the bricks, reviled and unmistakeable despite the stale sachets of lavender hung at regular intervals from the overhead beams.

Behind him, a sudden absence of body heat signalled that James had moved. Peter swung round in time to catch the quick contortion of his face, the jerk that shook his shoulders.

_“Aaa – aaah – atishooo! Atishhooo!” –_

Peter wrinkled his nose and stepped hastily out of the line of danger.

“Are you sure we’re in the right place?” James asked thickly through a nose full of linen.

“It did say Carruther’s Cauldrons on the sign above the door,” Sirius reminded him.

“Isn’t it – well, a bit empty? Where’s Carruther – assuming he’s still alive, of course?”

“Should be – these Knockturn Alley folk are tenacious little buggers – don’t die easily” –

“He’s probably inside somewhere,” Peter cut Sirius off. “Look, if you want all the ingredients on the list, this is the best place I know. They’ve got everything” –

“Even Sandalwood?” –

Peter scowled. “Specifically that, Padfoot. Best folk in the business for getting around customs and import laws. Why, when Father couldn’t persuade Ludo Bagman to bring it in over the border, Carruther and his son managed to dig up…” Peter gulped.

James and Sirius were staring at him. Sirius’ eyebrow rose. He couldn’t do it as well as Remus, but it was a good try. “Well, dig up what, Pete?”

Peter wet his lips. He could tell them, he supposed, but it wouldn’t be safe. Oh, they’d be thrilled to know, but they wouldn’t be serious about it. Despite their newfound gravity after the Cokeworth incident, which both impressed him and annoyed him at times, he couldn’t be sure that they’d keep this silent. Remus’ furry little secret – the Map – the Animagi – those were all large scale Statute-breaking secrets, but something like this –

No, best not. “Dingbat droppings,” he said at last. It was close enough.

His friends looked slightly disappointed. “And what did your father use it for?” James enquired.

“Potions,” Peter said shortly. “To increase the… the potency of various powers or skills.”

“Did it work?” Sirius asked.

“Well, Gracie learnt to recite sonnets backwards, so yes – you could say it did.” That was partly true. She had been able to recite poetry backwards – and they hadn’t been able to make her stop for several years. She still did it, whenever she was annoyed with them.

“Sandalwood won’t make me do that, will it?” Sirius asked, suddenly sounding panicked.

James snickered, then sniffled as he accidently inhaled more dust. “What’s the matter, Padfoot? Planning to recite poetry to Marly – oh Merlin” – his grin turned into a full belly laugh, and Peter smiled too, as Sirius turned a brilliant shade of vermillion. “I think that’s a rather outdated method of flirting, Padfoot” –

“As if your methods are any better,” Sirius snapped back. “Threatening to desex Snivelly” –

“Who wouldn’t _want_ to desex him, he’s terrible” –

“You might want to not kill him in the process,” Peter pointed out. He moved out of the greenish glare of the overhead lamp and made his way towards the nearest shelves, which held cauldrons. “Leave him alive a little longer, and Lily may actually deign to smile upon you.”

“She’s done that already,” James muttered. “Twice. In a month. That’s more than she did for five years” –

“It’s more than Snivelly deserves,” Sirius snapped, following Peter, and eyeing a minute gold cauldron critically. “He disappeared, during the fire – turned up later at her new house” –

“Pretending to be all friends and hoping he could come round her place and everything. Didn’t even tell her where he’d been” –

“At some secret little Death Eater meeting no doubt,” Sirius said darkly. He squashed the tiny cauldron in his fist. It crumpled into fine dust; James restored it with a flick of his wand. “I’d have told him to get the hell out” –

James shook his head, eyes lightening even as his brow furrowed. “She’s too kind. Oh, I don’t doubt she’d have thought of it” –

“I’m surprised she didn’t kill him then and there,” Sirius admitted.

“Hang on.” Peter gave up on the cauldrons and turned to face his friends. “How do you know all this? And when did you start calling her Lily, Prongs?”

Jam shrugged, looking awkward. “Well – Cokeworth… stuff just happened, you know…” he gestured vaguely with his wand arm, and a shower of green sparks erupted. “We correspond – ah – semi-regularly, you could say.” His eyes closed for one brief moment, and his adam’s apple bobbed, as though he had swallowed some words.

“I see,” Peter said slowly. Unaccountably, a well of irritation began to bubble in the pit of his stomach. “Well, Padfoot,” he said, as lightly as he could manage, “Sandalwood won’t make you speak backwards, but it won’t be of much else use to you, either. You’d better not finish off all the stuff in the box” –

“It hasn’t run out yet,” Sirius said quickly. “I told you – this is just for backup” –

Peter shook his head, irritation mounting. “It does not work like that, Sirius.” Of course it didn’t work like that. The small wooden box had resisted all efforts at replication and duplication, both magical and non-magical. It was either an intrinsically magical object with a unique core that could not be altered, or else it was protected with layers of strong spell and charm protection. Playing around with objects so shrouded in mystery was a risk – and there were some risks that were best not taken. Oh, research was all very well, reading up on runes, thinking on puzzles; but experimenting on the physical nature of the thing itself… this was not their own body, or some other plaything… there were things that James and Sirius were remarkably obtuse about, despite their intelligence.

“You’re getting too reliant on that box,” Peter told Sirius as sharply as he dared. Sirius’ face contorted, the brow lowering, the grey of the eyes flashing as steel in fire, but Peter held his ground, willing his knees to stop quivering, wiping his fingers on the sides of his robes. “I know you’ve got it in your pocket” – Sirius carried it around like a talisman, constantly rummaging inside to hold it, or roll it between his fingers – “it’s served you well enough for now” –

“I’d be dead without it,” Sirius said tightly.

“It won’t be any better if you can’t _live_ without it,” Peter pointed out. “You’re getting dependent on it – it’s beginning to wield too much power over you.”

Sirius’ shoulders rose sharply, the precursor to his defensive stance. “Uncle Alphard would not give me anything that could cause me damage. He also wouldn’t give us a puzzle we couldn’t figure out.” He turned, twisting sharply on his ankle, head angled just so that the dim light would pool in the hollows of his cheeks and jaw. A strange profile, rigid as marble. “We should be solving that one, by the way. That was _your_ job, wasn’t it, Peter? Set your magnificent intellect to work on it, yet?”

Stung, Peter’s reply died in his throat. For an infinitesimal second he stood still, desperately trying to supress the tears that welled up in his eyes. At last he looked up, locking onto Sirius’ dark stare. “I – I’ve made s-s-some progress…” _Damned stutter._ “Got ahead on some of the runes” –

Sirius smirked. Suddenly, he looked very much like Bellatrix. Peter swallowed convulsively. “What’s that, then? Three candles and genuflection to the north-east indicates that Mars is bright tonight? Runes on the west-facing surface of a wooden box can surely be nothing but a secret recipe for boiled house-elf Cornish pastries” –

“Sirius.”

James had spoken. Peter turned, still shaking. James had moved, standing right behind him, bathed in the ghostly light from the lamp above. He too was pale, with features of stone and brown eyes weighted down. He stared steadily at Sirius, unwilling to budge an inch.

At last, Sirius sighed and looked away, shoulders slumping. “Sorry, Peter,” he murmured. “That was out of line, mate.”

“Th-that’s all right.”

But it wasn’t – it never would be. It took him back to a time, in first and second year when Sirius was prone to nasty outbursts – made all the more distasteful because the observations he made then were always true. They’d reduced as the years went by, but now they’d started again. Peter tried to tell himself that it didn’t matter – the disownment and the fire had put Sirius under much stress – but the altercations were getting harder to ignore.

But worst of all, the attacks numbed him. They left him hurt and angry, fruitlessly hunting for retaliatory snubs. And always, he found none.

 

*******

 

“Right,” Peter said, clearing his throat and trying his best not to sound too squeaky, “ingredients this way.” Conjuring a trolley, he set off down the nearest isle. As he passed, a score of candles a foot above his head sprang to life, their bleak light casting dim shadows against the walls on either side. Wilted herbs and plants in wicker baskets were levitated alongside. They all looked the same, but when Peter went right up close and peered, he could make out the distinct aromas of each one.

“Here’s Shrivelfig,” James said, throwing a handful into his trolley.

“Boomslang skin” –

“Aloe Vera” –

Sirius snickered. “What for? Shampoo?”

“Burns and scratches,” James remarked. “Thought Moony might appreciate some.” He glanced at the candles, scowled, and illuminating the tip of his wand, bent over the next row of baskets. “And here’s a whopper – Nargle spittle” –

_“What?”_

James shrugged. “No idea, mate. Might be useful though.” He added a liberal helping to his cart.

“Sandalwood,” Peter said quietly. He held up a corked rubber sleeve with a grimy parchment label. “There’s essence of sandalwood and sandalwood sticks. Take your pick, Padfoot.”

Examining the sleeve closely, Sirius wrinkled his nose. “I’ll take two of both,” he decided at last. “It smells decent enough, though I can’t say I like the look of the rubber.”

“It’s artificially produced,” Peter informed him, turning the trolley around and making his way to the front of the shop.

“Can’t be,” James objected, looking up from a row of dodgy-looking vials filled with various luminous liquids. “Rubber’s natural. Can’t be conjured, only multiplied” –

“Yeah, yeah,” Sirius broke in. “Third Principal Exception to Gamp’s Law” –

“Muggles made it,” Peter said quietly. He banged down on the alarm on the counter, then winced as the hollow tolling began to sound again in the depths of the shop. This time, the proprietor appeared. Peter held his breath in case it was old Mr Carruther, who was famous for never forgetting a face, much like Ollivander, but fortunately, it was not he. The new Carruther was clearly a relative, but much less wizened, and altogether wrinkle-free. He counted out their purchases and secured their packages in silence.

“I don’t understand,” Sirius said as he handed over his sandalwood for parcelling, “why would Muggles need artificial rubber?”

In the back of Peter’s mind, a voice much like Gracie’s shouted, _“get on with it, Silly!”_

“The big Muggle war – you know, the Nasties and all that.” He waved a hand airily, carefully watching Sirius’ expression. “I did a bit of reading, t-touching on context” – context for what, was not necessary to say – “rubber imports weren’t allowed in to most countries, so their people did some experiments… Muggle chemicals and compounds… ended up with artificial rubber. They used it for their tanks and vehicles.”

James shook his head, face wavering between respect and amusement. “Would’ve been easier to get hold of a warlock and work out a deal for carpets or brooms, mate.”

“They tried,” Sirius offered. He smiled at their surprised faces. “Moony told me that Mary’d told him that her mum had told her… well, anyway, the pertinent point is that Brenda the Bizarre and Lex the Loony did try to set up a broom and carpet network for the Muggle armies and human shipments coming in and out of here… they were busted by the Ministry in the end. Lex spent some time for it in Azkaban too, I think.”

The familiar crease between James’ brows that indicated that he was becoming too interested in their sudden tangent began to make an appearance. “Lex didn’t dabble in Muggle chemicals, did he?” Peter hurriedly asked Sirius.

Sirius shrugged, but not disdainfully. “Far as I know, he was only interested in brooms and cloth. Might well have done, though. Why?”

“He could have made a fair profit out of Sandalwood,” Peter pointed out. “Rubber wasn’t the only use Muggles made of chemicals – during both wars, by the way. Not just the second. I borrowed some books from the village library to look up possible connections to that symbol, and well… Muggles managed to manufacture gases. Lots of them, and extremely poisonous.” Peter picked up his packages and pushed the door open with his foot, exiting backwards so he could keep his eyes focused on Sirius and James. “Something akin to dark spells,” he added, twisting up the collar of his cloak against the cold, “the gases could be released invisibly into the air in the battlefields. They caused horrific pain” –

“Worse than the Unforgivables?” James broke in.

“It could be compared to the Cruciatus,” Peter said softly. He darted a glance at Sirius, whose face had turned ashen and arms had begun to quiver, then looked away again. “We think wizards have the monopoly on torture, but – but Muggles are just as effective.” He wet his lips, thinking of the black-and-white photographs in the Muggle books he’d read. “I think they’ve even got a better understanding of pain thresholds than we have… more than we have in the modern day, anyway… but perhaps, dark wizards and old pure-blooded families would have worked out the specifics anyway, by the looks of it.”

“We wouldn’t know,” Sirius said, tones burring with irritation. “We haven’t anything to compare it with.” He shot a glance directly to their left, where a gap-toothed hag leered at them from the shadows, tightening his grip upon his wand.

Peter slowed, falling into step beside Sirius, keeping to the centre of the slimy street, well away from the shop-fronts. “What about Emeric the Evil? Or Grindelwald? We don’t have to go so far, actually, when you think about it. What about werewolf-hunting? National sport of magical England, at one time, wasn’t it?”

Sirius looked as though he’d been kicked in the stomach. Peter forcibly turned his eyes away, pretending to carefully examine the damp, mossy paving stones beneath his feet. His fringe was beginning to dampen too, minute trickles of sweat making their way down his forehead towards his nose.

“That act was kicked out of the International Convention centuries ago,” Sirius objected. His jaw was tight, each word seemingly causing him physical pain. “You’re right, though. It still goes on, despite our best efforts to stop it. But make your point, Pete. I don’t see what any of it has to do with Muggle wars or chemicals or Sandalwood at all” –

But now the crease between James’ brows had deepened into a crevasse. He too, was sticking close by them, a warm and gangly presence at Peter’s left. “I’m beginning to understand,” he said. He shot a glance – no more than a second’s nervous flicker up the street – then smiled at Sirius. “Werewolf hunting always posed a high risk of injury to the hunter, didn’t it?”

Sirius snorted, eyes darkening into molten steel. His wand shot crimson sparks onto the stone, which hissed and sizzled, turning into charred ashes which he then ground into powder beneath his sole. Discreetly, Peter stepped away, leaning just slightly closer to James. “That was always the fun,” Sirius said, voice laced with bitterness. “The risk, the adrenaline kick, the high. Paired with hatred and downright viciousness” –

“Pain,” James continued, ignoring Sirius’ outburst, “hunting with doctored silver weapons, any other kind of magical injury – and Muggle injuries caused by non-natural means that mimic magical ones” –

And then, at last, Sirius breathed in, chest heaving beneath his shirt as he took stock of James’ words. That dark, angry hurt in his eyes melted away, the irises shrinking, the lines smoothening to the weary, resigned look that he wore frequently of late. “Our initial assumptions were right, then. Sandalwood is both an inhibitor and a catalyst – dulls pain and accelerates healing” –

“Mixed with magical methods, other herbs and compounds” –

“That’s why it worked on my wounds caused by the Unforgivable. Uncle Alphard knew” –

“For the body, of course – and the mind” –

“But there has to be something else; those runes – regarding healing, then? What is it – Magic-Muggle relations? Uncle Alphard must have thought there was something else in there for us to figure out” –

“We’ve made progress with that already,” James broke in. Peter watched as James made another sweeping assessment of the alley, and fixed his own eyes upon the distant smudge of blue which indicated the end of their long walk. “We’re about halfway there, I’d wager. Now we know what line to work on, it’ll be faster, and once Moony gets back” –

Carefully stepping over a puddle, Peter quickened his pace. The others matched their gait to his. Gracie’s words hovered like a cloud at the back of his mind. Perhaps it was a good thing that Remus wasn’t here after all. “I suppose, Padfoot,” he said, controlling his voice to sound as light as it could, “You’ve not read much about the Muggle wars?”

“Not at all.” Sirius glanced round, eyes hooded. “Uncle Alphard couldn’t have been banking on me reading Muggle books, would he?”

“Perhaps not Muggle books at all,” Peter pointed out. “Considering the strength of magic-Muggle relations during the wars, and specifically the views of the Nasties…”

“They were entirely wrong,” Sirius said shortly. “We all know that.”

“Of course,” Peter fought to keep his tones modulated, “they were blood-supremacists in a manner. The blood of their own, against” –

A tendril of fire cured upwards from Sirius’ wand. Peter stopped.

Sirius continued to gaze at Peter, steady as a rock. “Your point?”

“S-sandalwood’s easily found, Padfoot. And easy to grow, to harvest, to clean and use. And nevermind sides, or – or perspectives at all. It isn’t about who’s right or not – if – if any witch or wizard had the least bit of sympathy for any of the Muggle causes, or even if they didn’t – if they’d seen an opening for Sandalwood to be used as a Muggle-magic industry” –

“They’d have taken the opportunity to sell their skills and know-how to the Muggles,” Sirius finished. The wand stopped smoking abruptly; a stream of icy water ran from the tip, spattering across his shirt. Looking surprised, Sirius dried the fabric with a wave of his wand. “There must be other artefacts out there then” –

“Runes.” James nodded, “Spells, maybe, or charms. Could be anywhere – libraries, books, etched into stone, on antique boxes” –

“Since Alphard found one, he may have clues to the rest,” Peter said. “Sirius, can’t you write to him?”

“The bird won’t get through. I’d have to wait till he writes back. This is only the tip of the flutterby bush, anyway” –

“The rest will come eventually,” Peter reassured him. He turned down the collar of his cloak; the warmth of the neighbouring Diagon Alley began to seep into their path. James was still looking ahead, eye fixed on the towering white form of Gringotts, lips turning upwards at the corners. Peter wasn’t so sure of the rest coming as easily as expected, though. There was much digging to do – a million avenues on magic-Muggle relations and blood supremacy policies opening up, and some of that, he decided, was worth exploring alone.

“You’re right, Peter,” Sirius acknowledged. He smiled – the first genuine light to touch his eyes for the entire day. “Well done on a smart bit of detective work, by the way.”

Peter inclined his head in response, and some of the heaviness that lay upon his chest began to lighten and dissipate. But with it came a new sensation; a thin, string-like tugging at his throat and wrists that would not disappear however much he loosened his collar or wiped at the sweat that formed on his shirt cuffs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reference to John Donne’s ‘Devotions Upon Emergent Occasions.’


End file.
